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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817012">Building Safer Houses</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD'>ArgylePirateWD</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Building Safer Houses [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing, Bedside Vigils, Big Bang Challenge, Caretaking, Cuddling and Snuggling, Food, Friends to Lovers, Gift Giving, Hair Washing, Harold Finch Whump, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Joss Carter Lives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Mistaken For A Couple, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Pain, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reading, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Stabbing, Tea, Tropes, Trust Issues, Whump, minor character injury, so much pining, stuffed animals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:53:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>67,174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27817012</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a number goes wrong and Harold is stabbed, his entire life is thrown into disarray. Seriously injured, he's left with no choice but to rely on someone else as he recovers. He chooses John (or, rather, John chooses himself) and invites John into his home and his very private life as he slowly heals from the trauma and the wounds.</p><p>What happens when he realizes he wants John to stay close?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Claypool &amp; Harold Finch, Bear &amp; Harold Finch, Harold Finch/John Reese, mentions of Harold Finch/Grace Hendricks, mentions of Jessica Arndt/John Reese, mentions of unrequited Harold Finch/Nathan Ingram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Building Safer Houses [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Person of Interest Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fic by ArgylePirateWD, art by st_aurafina, with a bonus doodle by WD in Chapter 6. Huge, <em>huge</em> thank you to Aura for stepping in with art not just at the last minute, but after it! 💖</p><p>This is a sequel to a <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386814">ficlet I wrote back in July</a> where Harold gets stabbed, but that's really not required reading. All that happens there is covered here: Harold is stabbed in the gut, drags himself up off the floor, and eventually winds up dramatically collapsing in John's arms. My brain asked what happened next a few weeks later, and this is the answer, apparently.</p><p>So, to that Tumblr anon who asked for <em>!: that classic collapse into someone’s waiting arms</em>, thank you.</p><p>Also, huge thank you to the ever-lovely talkingtothesky for all of the encouragement and cheerleading, for catching pesky typos, for always being enthusiastic about my writing, and for being so gleeful about reading this early. You are a delight, and I am glad to have met you. &lt;3</p><p>Another huge thank you goes to stingalingaling for also agreeing to beta this behemoth and for throwing out "Safe House" as a title suggestion, which led my brain to this one. You also rock very, very much, and I really appreciate the help you gave me. &lt;3</p><p>And, finally, thank you to the people on Discord and Tumblr who <s>put up with me</s> supported me as I wrote this thing—seriously, this whole fandom is amazing, and I'm so happy I tripped and fell into it. 💖💖💖💖</p><p><strong>Warnings:</strong> Stab wounds, PTSD, panic attacks, mentions of digestive dysfunctions, mentions of weight loss, Harold on a liquid diet, assorted medical stuff that was researched but was not written or checked by a doctor (this is 100% pure unrepentantly tropey h/c), Leon getting shot offscreen, the canon death of Arthur Claypool, and mentions of Nathan's and Harold's father's deaths</p><p>This fic goes AU in between 3x06 (Mors Praematura) and 3x07 (The Perfect Mark) and runs all the way up to 3x14 (Provenance). Poor Harold goes through a really rough time, but I pinkie swear he gets a happy ending!</p><p>Also, Carter lives, and Samaritan does not.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <a href="https://imgur.com/IEKpcZt">
    
  </a>
</p><p>It's a familiar state of being—the mental haze, the profound fatigue, the annoying plastic tubes prickling at his nostrils. The horrific pain—in his abdomen instead of his spine or his hip this time, but Harold is no stranger to the post-surgical fog. Surgery. He's had surgery again. But it's hard to think beyond the pain, the horrendous burn spread across his entire belly like a blanket of fire coating his insides, sparking hotter with every breath.</p><p>"How you feeling, Harold?" John's voice filters into the fog, nearly as soft as the dampening of Harold's senses.</p><p>"On a scale of one to ten," Dr. Madani asks, gentle and knowing, "how bad is the pain?"</p><p>Harold clenches his eyes shut, grits his teeth, and tries to think. An accurate number lurks just out of reach, severed from his mouth by glinting sliver, liquid red, and horrible, horrible pain. Stabbed, he thinks. He was stabbed. In the safehouse. Is he still in the safehouse? Why?</p><p>His terrified gasp cuts off with a groan, as the mere act of breathing stokes the fire. For it to register so strongly in him, with his tolerance, the damage must be near-catastrophic.</p><p>"Oh, man, that's gotta be at least an eight," Shaw says. "He's really feelin' it." Then her voice softens the tiniest bit. "Harold, I'm gonna give you a little more morphine, okay?"</p><p>"That..." Harold gets out, barely. His mouth is dry, his throat raw, and every breath is utterly terrible. He swallows, but it doesn't help. Maybe morphine will. "That would be much appreciated, Ms. Shaw."</p><p>Someone squeezes his hand—John, perhaps; it feels large enough. Someone else bustles around, while Madani says, "Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Finch. Do you know where you are?"</p><p>Harold lets his eyes slip open a little, and makes himself look around. Still in the safehouse, oh, god, in the surgical room, the small, private operating suite he'd always hoped none of them would need. The room is dim, lit by warm lamps outside his line of sight, and all the usually-beeping medical machinery attached to him is muted. But the soothing lights and the quiet do nothing for the sinking feeling in his aching abdomen, for the memory that haunts this place whose floor almost became his deathbed.</p><p>"Harold," John gently says, and a calloused thumb begins stroking the back of Harold's hand, "do you know where you are?"</p><p>Harold nods, clenching his teeth through the pain. Good heavens, it is an all-consuming thing, smothering his brain, outshining even the groggy misery of anesthetics and quickly overtaking the burgeoning fear. He tries to focus on something else, but alternative thoughts and sensations are elusive, slipping through his mind's grasp like smoke. He was stabbed. How is he supposed to think of anything else?</p><p>"Hang in there, Harold," John says, a faint tremor in his voice. "Just hang in there. You're gonna be fine."</p><p>"And even if you aren't," Shaw says, "in a little bit you're gonna feel like everything is so, <em>so</em> good." There is the Sameen Shaw he knows, her amusement at pumping him full of narcotics only thinly disguised. If she's hoping for a show, the soreness of her disappointment will be comparable to the soreness in his midsection. "I'm giving you plenty of the good stuff."</p><p>"Squeeze my hand if you need to, until it helps," John adds. "Break it if you need to."</p><p>Harold considers that for a moment, then wrinkles his nose. Oh, no, he couldn't possibly do such a thing—the wounds aren't quite <em>that</em> painful—but he doesn't say so. "That's alright," he slurs instead, giving John's hand a light squeeze back. "Thank you, though."</p><p>Perhaps he should question why John is holding his hand. Has he guessed something he shouldn't have, or did the information come straight from Harold himself while he was under the influence? Or maybe he's merely offering—or seeking—comfort. No matter—the why doesn't seem particularly important. John's hand is soothing, an easy, undemanding point of comfort for Harold's meandering brain to latch onto. He lets it, focusing on the warmth against his cold skin—he's so cold, still, despite what must be an electric blanket covering his body with heat. Focusing on the strength of John's fingers, the size of his hand, the steadiness of its presence, the roughness of John's skin.</p><p>"I need to teach you how to moisturize," floats out of Harold's mouth—oh, yes, that morphine must be kicking in, finally, thank goodness—and John laughs quietly.</p><p>"You've already tried," John says. "Didn't stick."</p><p>Harold huffs. "That means I didn't actually teach you, doesn't it?" He looks John over through narrowed eyes. "Didn't teach you much about grooming, either, I see. You look..." He tries to find a delicate way to put it. "Rough."</p><p>John chuckles, weak and hesitant, and says, "You look amazing," which is certainly a lie, but Harold finds himself smiling back. He suspects a laugh would be a mistake right now, even with the quilt of narcotics slowly wrapping itself around his sore insides, so he refrains.</p><p>Both of them sober quickly, and John asks, gently, "Do you remember what happened?"</p><p>The drugs and blood loss have done nothing to his memory. He can still see the knife sinking into his abdomen, fast and brutal and unrelenting, already at too many times to count after only the first one. Seven times—he thinks he may have been stabbed seven times. But he doesn't want to think about it in more detail than that, doesn't want to think about how it was <em>here</em>, in this very same apartment, this safehouse, how it's no longer safe just when he needs safety the most, when he can't <em>flee</em>.</p><p>So he turns his attention to John's hand, to John, to the person who caught him as he fell, carried him to safety. "Yes," he breathes out. "I absolutely remember it, though I'd rather not, thank you."</p><p>"Okay, if he's still talking like that while he's doped to the gills, I don't think the blood loss screwed up his brain any," Shaw says, "but he's still probably gonna pass out on us again pretty soon, so get your questions in now."</p><p>"That's okay," John says to her, then shifts his focus to Harold. "Get some rest, Harold. You're safe right now. You can take it easy for a bit."</p><p>The drugs soften the edges of his reason just as completely as they do the harshness of the pain. He can see no reason to disagree with that assessment, though reasons certainly abound. The safehouse has been compromised. Everett knows their location and could easily come back and try to finish what he started in the kitchen, could come and stab him again or worse.</p><p>"I'll keep an eye on you," John continues. "So'll Dr. Madani. We'll take care of you."</p><p>"That we will," Madani says, and pats Harold's arm, careful to avoid the IV line he can feel snaking over his skin. "You've had a rough time. Now you need to rest."</p><p>"Get some sleep, Finch," Shaw says. "That's an order. I won't be watching—gotta head out, number stuff, but..."</p><p>But Madani is an excellent surgeon, and John would give everything to protect him. The location is not ideal, but the situation is as good as it's going to get. "I'm in good hands, I know," Harold says. "Thank you, all of you."</p><p>There's not much point in staying awake after that. They wanted to know if he survived the surgery. He has. So he lets his eyes fall shut again and lets himself drift.</p><p>He thinks he wakes up again, some ambiguous amount of time later, to the sound of Shaw's voice, the vise grip of a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Another, Madani is examining his belly, and he quickly decides he does <em>not</em> want to be awake for that. Once or twice, he thinks they bring Bear for a visit, but his body doesn't have the strength for him to lift his hand and pet him. Through it all, the lights stay dim around him, the blankets unnaturally warm.</p><p>John rarely lets go of his hand. How odd.</p><p>Harold does, perhaps inevitably, come back to himself after a while. Weakness and fatigue tether him to the bed, aided by the leaden ball of pain that has taken up residence inside his abdomen like some terrible monster. But his dry eyes don't fall shut immediately after he opens them, and he manages to focus them well enough to find John, who's still next to him, grasp warm and lax around his hand, body hunched with sleep. He looks terrible. He looks beautiful. And while Harold is tempted to ask for assistance with his parched mouth and throat, or for his glasses, he can't bring himself to speak.</p><p>How long has John been there, he wonders. Best to let him rest. No doubt he needs it. Harold won't wake him.</p><p>But as the time ticks past, Harold's brain starts to awaken. Details creep in, like the bandages wrapped around the fingers of his right hand (the term <em>defensive wounds</em> flits through his head, joined by a quickly-banished memory of grabbing for the knife), the unpleasant stiffness of the IV in his left arm, the room around him. He's still in the safehouse, it reminds him, whispering in a sinister voice in his brain. Still in the place where it happened, where they were hiding Kyle Everett from loan sharks, until Everett turned on them, revealing that he was their perpetrator, hell-bent on killing his wife and twin children. And with every thought, Harold's chest gets tighter, his heart rate quicker, his body colder, until he can hardly breathe at all.</p><p>This is where it happened. Just down the hall, in the kitchen, Kyle Everett came after him with a knife. He was making tea, had just poured the water over the leaves in the pot and turned around at the sound of his name, and then there was a knife in his abdomen. He can still feel it going <em>in</em>, the pain of memory blurring with the dampened agony presently in his belly—god, he's not safe here, he needs to <em>leave</em>, Everett knows where this place is, what if he comes back...</p><p>He's halfway to yanking the IV line from his arm when a hand closes around his wrist, and John's voice calling his name slips through the screaming in his head. "Whoa, hey, no, Harold, you can't do that."</p><p>"I need to get out of here." Harold tries to snatch his arm away, but John's grip is too strong, and moving sends a blinding wave of pain through his middle. "Let go of me, Mr. Reese, I need to <em>go</em>."</p><p>"Harold, no."</p><p>"John, please, I need to leave. Everett could—"</p><p>"Everett's dead."</p><p>That should be enough to stop the panic in its tracks, the rational part of Harold's brain says, and it does for a moment, but not for long. He can't breathe, he <em>hurts</em>, he's not <em>safe</em>. "John, please," he says. "Please, I can't stay here. Please."</p><p>"Okay," John says, and Harold finally registers the anguish in John's eyes and face. "Okay, but I'm going to need you to calm down, first, okay? Okay? Need you to stop acting like you're me by going for that IV line, and to start breathing again. Take a deep breath for me, Finch."</p><p>Harold tries, but the air doesn't want to go in, stuttering between loud heartbeats and tearing pangs in his abdomen. He's not safe here. He's not safe. "I need to leave."</p><p>"And we can do that, but not just yet, okay?"</p><p>"Please." It comes out nearly a sob, nearly a whisper. "I can't be here. I need to go home."</p><p>"I know. But if you bust a stitch in your belly, you're not gonna be able to do that for a day or two." John guides Harold's hand away from the IV and rests it gently at Harold's side, then wraps it around his own again. "Come on, Harold. Calm down for me, then maybe we can talk to Shaw and Farouk about me springing you from this joint a little early."</p><p>Harold tries, but his heart is racing so fast and hard it hurts, his breath coming in feeble, terrified gasps. "I don't know if I can."</p><p>"Yeah, you can," John says. "You—hang on." He lets go of Harold's hand and abruptly gets to his feet. "I've got an idea."</p><p>He's only gone for a few moments, at the most. In the solitude, Harold tries to calm himself down, closing his eyes and forcing himself to try to take slower, deeper breaths. Each one hurts, the expansion of his belly tugging at his stitched up wounds and fueling the panic screaming in his brain, but he needs to calm down, needs to go home, needs to breathe and stay awake. If John's gone to fetch permission for a sedative, he needs to show he doesn't need one. God, he doesn't want to be drugged, doesn't want to go under again, not here.</p><p>But it's not a sedative John's after. He comes back quickly, telling someone, in a soft voice, "Now, you have to be really careful. I think you know the drill by now, but Harold's really hurt. You can't go jumping on him, okay, boy?"</p><p>Boy. <em>Bear.</em> Harold can't bring himself to open his eyes in case he's wrong, but he doesn't need to. Soon, Bear's cold, wet nose is pressing into his palm, and in an instant, Harold can breathe a little easier. There's something powerful about a dog, he thinks, following the path of Bear's warm, furry muzzle up to the curve of his head, the fear around his chest easing. Something nearly magical about moving his hand in slow, repetitive strokes over soft fur. John was right—it does calm him down.</p><p>Bear whimpers, and Harold's heart clenches. "Oh, you poor boy," he murmurs, looking down into Bear's mournful gaze. "My poor boy." Comforting Bear—such a welcome distraction from his own troubles. He strokes Bear's head, running his hand over the crown and his velvety ears, while John sits down and starts rubbing Bear's back. "Poor Bear."</p><p>"He's been worried sick about you," John says, and a distressed sound reminiscent of Bear's whine slips from Harold's chest before he can stop it. "Not eating much, not playing. We've let him in here a bunch of times, but...you weren't doing too good, so."</p><p>Harold nods, understanding. Bear is such a sensitive, clever creature, ever-aware of their distress and their hurts. And Harold would wager that, judging by the look on John's face, by the dark circles around John's eyes and the haunted cast to them, Bear is not the only one upset by this.</p><p>Judging by the pain in his belly, horrible even with the morphine, they were right to worry about him.</p><p>His voice is more even when he speaks again, calmer. "How bad was the damage? Did I lose any organs?"</p><p>"Pretty bad," John says. "No lost organs, but, uh, he got you seven times." Harold inhales sharply. "Some didn't go through the abdominal wall, Shaw said."</p><p>"Well, I suppose the middle aged potbelly my doctor's been complaining about was finally good for something, then." Though how he'll explain an abdomen covered in stab wounds after all this...goodness. That will be a challenge.</p><p>John huffs a brief, weak laugh, with a tiny smile that dies as quickly as it was born. "Some got you pretty good in the guts, though, so you're on some pretty heavy duty antibiotics, and another nicked an artery a little bit..."</p><p>"Oh, dear."</p><p>"They had to operate on you twice—damage control, they said. And you lost a lot of blood—a <em>lot</em>. I did my best to keep you going. Didn't think it'd be enough." Harold remembers much of that part vividly—the terrible pain of pressure on his wounds, John frantically getting a transfusion going with Shaw's instructions. John crying, sobbing as he begged Harold to stay conscious, to stay with him, to live. Everything is foggy after that—a vague impression of saying something important, of feeling cared for and loved amidst the pain, of relief at Shaw's arrival. Then nothing.</p><p>"They, uh, there was a lot of talk about taking you to the hospital, or, uh..." John trails off, swallowing hard, then faking a smile. "But you made it. How, uh...you're feeling pretty bad, huh?"</p><p>Harold manages a small nod. "Horrendous," he replies, grimacing and moving his free hand to his belly, careful not to put any real pressure on it. It feels like part of a stranger's body under his hand, tight and more rounded than normal, swollen and covered in bandages, but so tender to the touch there's no convincing himself it isn't his. "I suppose it would be rather—" He searches for the right word, and his tongue sticks to his dry mouth. "—<em>unnecessary</em> to say that my belly hurts quite badly, wouldn't it?"</p><p>John's expression softens further. "I'm sorry. I know how bad it feels. If there's anything I can do..."</p><p>"Actually," Harold says, before John can finish, "I'm very thirsty. Am I allowed water, or..."</p><p>"Oh, yeah." John practically jumps up, and fetches a glass of ice water with a straw from the nightstand beside the bed. "Tiny sips only, not too many," he says, putting the straw to Harold's dry lips. "Don't want to aggravate your gut by going too fast."</p><p>"No, that doesn't seem wise," Harold says, but when he takes his first drink, it's tempting. The water is cold and clean, a blissful contrast to the foul-tasting desert his mouth has become. He decides to savor it instead of giving in to temptation, swishing sips around his mouth, letting them linger on his tongue until he allows them to trickle down his raw throat. Why is it—oh, yes, he must have been intubated. That makes sense. But he'd rather not think about that now.</p><p>He'd rather not be thinking at all, actually. Good heavens, he's exhausted, so groggy and weak. He lets the straw fall from his lips and thanks John, then adds, "I suspect I'm about to go under again, Mr. Reese. I'm sorry—and I apologize for my behavior earlier." Just thinking about it makes the panic start creeping up on him again, the terror. "I—" His voice cracks.</p><p>"Hey, it's okay. Normal." John puts the glass back on the nightstand and quickly returns to his seat at Harold's side. "Something really bad happened to you. It's normal to feel messed up after something like that."</p><p>Harold clenches his eyes shut tight and nods. He knows that—he knows it. Were it anyone else, he'd be supportive. It's just that... "I don't feel safe here," he confesses, voice small, and he looks up at John, into kind, compassionate, <em>understanding</em> eyes. Immense gratitude drowns out the anxiety. What a treasure John is. How lucky he is to have found someone as dear as John Reese, who he can safely tell that he's afraid and not be dismissed. "It's a safehouse. Safe is part of the name. But..." His thoughts go briefly to Wayne Kruger hitting him over the head, then back to Everett. God. "This is the second time I've been assaulted here by a number this year, and I don't..."</p><p>"You're scared," John says, laying a hand over the one on Harold's belly. "You're hurting. You want to go home. Anyone who doesn't understand has never been there." He gives Harold a small, fleeting smile. "I'll talk to Shaw about bailing you out of here as soon as she comes back."</p><p>"Not Dr. Madani?" Harold asks, and John's smile widens.</p><p>"He'll say no."</p><p>Harold manages a tiny chuckle, and instantly regrets it. A small, "Mm," escapes without his permission, and Bear lets out another whine, while John's face falls into concern. "My stomach really hurts. I think the morphine's wearing off," Harold admits. "Either that or the dosage needs to be adjusted. Are you allowed to administer a dose, or..."</p><p>"I can play drug dealer." John lightly squeezes Harold's fingers. "Anything else I can get you?"</p><p>"No, I'm alright," Harold replies, and John starts toward the door. They've taken good care of him: an electric blanket, a water-powered heating pad for his back and hip, another for his neck. Those would've been his next concerns—inevitably, someone will insist he get up and walk, and that will be a terrible proposition if his muscles have cramped up from lying around for too long. Except he does need to express his gratitude, so, before John gets to the door, Harold calls out, "Mr. Reese?"</p><p>"Yeah, Finch?" John stops, his hand on the door, his expression expectant. "What is it?"</p><p>John would bring him the stars and the moon if he asked, wouldn't he, would pluck them from the very sky and bring them to him—a fanciful thought, perhaps, but valid. Harold finds himself smiling at him. "John, thank you. For everything."</p><p>Soft and sincere, John says, "Anytime. Anything you need. Just let me know."</p>
<hr/><p>A dose of morphine and another nap later, Harold drifts awake to the sound of arguing. He catches the words "not stable enough" and something about "my patient" from Shaw, and he tamps down on the impulse to groan. Unless they're talking about their friend at the Library—unlikely—they are most likely talking about him.</p><p>"You know how he is," Shaw continues. "He's going to want to go to his place alone, and that can't happen. It can't. He's not ready."</p><p>Oh, he really doesn't have the patience for this—not when he's exhausted and in pain. "If you're going to discuss my care, I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd involve me, thank you."</p><p>John has the decency to look embarrassed, but Shaw, as usual, looks greatly displeased with everything. "Good, you're awake," she says, crossing her arms. "Please tell me you were joking about planning to go home."</p><p>Harold forces himself not to cringe away from her tone. He suspects it would be painful. So instead, he meets her glare without hesitation, and coolly says, "That is something I am intending to do very soon, yes. I can lie about in my bed just as easily at home as I can here, Ms. Shaw—with better accommodations no less."</p><p>"Yeah, sure," she says, "you can do that. What about everything else? Getting your ass to the john, getting your drugs, changing your bandages, checking your BP, fetching your incentive spirometer—you're really gonna be able to do all that <em>and more</em> by yourself?"</p><p>"He'll have help," John says.</p><p>"You really think he's taking you home with him?" Shaw rolls her eyes. "<em>Please.</em>"</p><p>That's news to Harold, too. "We didn't discuss that," he says, slowly.</p><p>"Of course you didn't," Shaw says, just as John is saying, "You can't take care of yourself right now, Harold. You need somebody to help you."</p><p>Somebody to help him. Somebody invading his space, intruding on his quiet, private life. Somebody poking around the home he's planning to retreat to, traipsing through his townhouse, sticking their nose into every corner. Somebody bringing him things he can usually fetch for himself, cleaning him after he relieves himself, coddling him, <em>smothering</em> him.</p><p>But they'd have to do the latter here, too. Handing him the cup of water again, retrieving his glasses from wherever they've disappeared to, assisting him when the dreadful catheter is out or when he needs to take care of his body's other demands.</p><p>Perhaps he could hire a caretaker, a nurse, someone who wouldn't care one whit about his secrets as long as he paid them well. That was what he did after—what he did before. But Abigail retired not long after he stopped requiring her services, and he's not sure he has the energy to dig into the background of someone else at the moment. Last time, pain and immobility were his primary difficulties. Significant blood loss brings its own set of concerns. He simply doesn't have the energy. His mind wants to flit away, to escape the hell in his midsection by fleeing to the land of dreams. How is he supposed to get anything done with that weighing on him?</p><p>"We could stay at my place?" John suggests, but, no, that won't do.</p><p>Why not go with somebody he has already vetted thoroughly, somebody he knows cares about him personally and not about his money? John started running to his side the moment he choked out, <em>"We have a...situation,"</em> before he said a word about the knife wounds in his belly. John caught him when he fell, carried him, comforted him as he got blood pumping into him and put agonizing pressure on his injuries.</p><p>John stayed while he was unconscious. John held his hand. John came after him when he was kidnapped, refused to leave when there were no numbers.  John cares about him.</p><p>"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese," he says. "There's plenty of room at my place for the both of us."</p><p>John's eyebrows shoot up, and Shaw looks equally astonished. "Really?" she says. "But..."</p><p>"You don't want either of us to know where you live," John says. "Are you sure?"</p><p>Harold thinks of the tracking device on his last pair of glasses—where <em>are</em> his glasses, anyway? "May I have my glasses, please?" Quickly, John fetches them from the nightstand for him, and, after thanking John, Harold runs his fingers along the length of the arms, searching for anomalies. He's quick to find one, and he holds up his glasses and gives John a pointed look. "I'm surprised you don't already know where I live."</p><p>John shrugs a shoulder. "I didn't check. I only track you down when I really can't find you. It's no fun if I don't find it the hard way."</p><p>Shaw makes a face. "God, you two deserve each other."</p><p>"Rather interesting statement coming from someone who bugged my library, Ms. Shaw," Harold says, ignoring a peculiar flutter in his heart at the mere idea of John <em>wanting</em> to find him—blood loss does strange things to the body, after all—and earning a petulant glare from Shaw. He turns his attention to cleaning his glasses on his gown before putting them on his face. Once they're in place, a knot of tension he hadn't noticed himself carrying in his chest unwinds itself—ah, another piece of the world set to rights. Such a small change, yet somehow so significant. "I'm not entirely opposed to Mr. Reese moving in with me for the duration of my recovery. It's not ideal—for either of us, I suspect—"</p><p>"I don't mind," John says.</p><p>"—but the alternatives are much more unappealing." He looks at Shaw. "Ms. Shaw, I just want to go home. Will you please allow me to leave this place, provided I have someone present to attend to my needs?"</p><p>Shaw looks at him for a while, then huffs, and says, "Ugh, <em>fine.</em> This is a really bad idea, but he'll probably sneak you out of here when I'm not here anyway." She whirls around on John. "But if he starts deteriorating and you don't call someone with real medical training, I am kicking your ass so hard you'll wish I'd just killed you, understand?"</p><p>"Understood," John says.</p><p>"No, I mean it, Reese. If this were a hospital, there is no way they'd be letting him anywhere near the door in the shape he's in right now. He'd be there for weeks, maybe even months, at his age. The only reason I'm not tying both of you up and keeping you from helping him leave is because I know you've been hurt as bad as him before and know what to look for." She is terrifying when she's concerned. It's strangely comforting. Harold stifles an unwelcome smile. "Keep an eye on him, don't let him get away with any hiding-the-pain shit, and if he shows any signs of hemorrhaging, infection, anything—"</p><p>"I'll call you," John says. "Thank you," he tells her, sincerely. "For everything."</p><p>"Yes, thank you, Sameen," Harold says. "Thank you, both of you, for saving my life."</p><p>"You've thanked us already," Shaw grumbles, her face rather tellingly blank.</p><p>Has he? Oh, yes, he has. But that doesn't matter. "Considering what happened and all that the both of you did, I see no reason why I shouldn't reiterate that I am grateful to have been saved, and that I am thankful for everyone's hard work in keeping me alive."</p><p>"I only worked so hard 'cause Bear likes you," Shaw insists, and John looks away, hiding a smile. "Don't think he would've taken it well if you hadn't made it."</p><p>"Of course," Harold says, voice dry. Before Shaw can retort, he speaks again, asking, "Now, tell us what needs to be done after I return home, please?"</p><p>He hopes John is listening as intently as his expression shows, because nearly every word oozes out of Harold's brain as soon as it is said. Shaw says something about coughing and pillows, something about the spirometer device he's supposed to breathe into to strengthen his lungs, whose twin is still gathering dust under his bathroom cabinet at home after his last surgery. She talks about medications, his schedule, as though the passage of time has not suddenly become an utter mystery for him. Something about passing gas comes up as well, though she, of course, uses the more crude term for it.</p><p>After she says something about food, John winces and says, "Ooh, that's gonna suck."</p><p>"What is?" Harold asks, blinking his bleary eyes.</p><p>"No food for a while," John replies.</p><p>"Clear liquids only for a few days, maybe longer," Shaw says. "'Til we're sure your body can handle some stuff. That knife did a lot of damage to your guts."</p><p>"Oh." Just the mere thought of food turns his stomach. "I'm quite alright with that at the moment—though a bit of water would be quite welcome right now." <em>Quite, quite,</em> he thinks, wryly. <em>Say 'quite' one more time, Harold.</em></p><p>"Here, hang on." Without hesitation, John retrieves the cup from before and helps Harold drink. The water has warmed to room temperature, but is still refreshing. "Not too much." Harold glares, and John gives him a sheepish smile. "Sorry."</p><p>Once Harold's finished, Shaw picks up her instructions again. She would have made a fine doctor, he thinks—far better than many he's dealt with before. But that's not enough to keep his brain's attention. He's so tired. Oh, well, as long as someone's paying attention...</p><p>Next time he drifts back to himself, the arms on the bed are being lowered, and the wires being disconnected from his chest. A wheelchair is waiting nearby, presumably for him, with a pile of clothes in the seat. He looks up at John, feeling somewhat dazed and overwhelmed, and says, "Oh. Am I getting out of here now?"</p><p>"Yeah," John replies. "I'm getting you out of here."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Helping him get dressed—in soft gray sweatpants and a matching shirt from their cache for Detective Fusco—is a rather painful ordeal, as is leaving the safehouse. John helps him up the stairs, putting up with his complaining and cursing without any grumbling of his own, and Harold makes it to the top without giving in to the temptation to have John carry him.</p><p>Good heavens, if he keeps this safehouse, he needs to make accessibility a priority.</p><p>Once he's back in the wheelchair and has caught his breath, Harold says, "I'm sure you're absolutely <em>thrilled</em> to be playing nursemaid to me for the foreseeable future, aren't you, Mr. Reese?" as John pushes him along.</p><p>"It's no trouble," John replies, and Harold can hear the smile in his voice. "Just don't expect me to trade my white shirt for one of those little white dresses they used to wear."</p><p>"You certainly have the legs for it," slips out without Harold's permission, and he claps a hand over his mouth, face flushing hot. "Oh, dear. That was highly inappropriate, wasn't it?"</p><p>Fortunately, John chuckles, and doesn't miss a step. "Morphine's some pretty powerful stuff," he says, followed by, "I'll take it as a compliment."</p><p>Soon, John gets him loaded into one of their little group's many Town Cars, and they're on the move, Harold in the backseat surrounded by pillows, wrapped in John's suit jacket, with Bear snuggled up close to his side. His IV bag dangles from the grab bar on the ceiling across from him, hanging by a hook. A throw pillow protects his abdomen from the pressure of a seatbelt but not from the various bumps on the roads. It is hellish, many times worse than his long-ago appendectomy. Even the tiniest of potholes seems to jolt his wounds, leaving him whimpering and clenching his fists in the pillow, and after the tenth or eleventh time John apologizes, Harold says, "Turn up the radio, please," hoping the music will muffle his moans.</p><p>John, he has learned over the past few years, is not a fan of opera, but he increases the volume without a word. Their eyes meet briefly in the rearview mirror, John's full of anguish and concern, and Harold wonders how little his own gaze hides. Probably nothing. Being critically unwell has stripped him of his defenses so neatly that he cannot seem to access them at all at the moment.</p><p>And he is powerless to stop their continued erosion. He's so feeble that his employees—or perhaps friends? He's not quite sure where Shaw falls on that spectrum, but John is certainly a friend now—helped him into someone else's clothes, saw his naked and scarred and wounded body, moved his limbs about like he was little more than a puppet with clipped strings. John helped him to the restroom, removed his catheter for him, cleaned up after him while he panted and whined like a wounded animal over the once semi-straightforward (albeit often difficult) act of defecating and wiping. Shaw knew about it and <em>congratulated him</em> for, in her uncouth words, "taking an epic dump." Goodness, just days ago, Shaw touched his insides, cleaned his organs and stitched them back together and tucked them into his torn-up belly.</p><p>Thanks to Everett, the peace of his body has been disturbed by people who are not strangers, and now one of them is going to enter his home, is going to slip into his sanctuary and live there with him while he is as weak as an infant. Even his mind isn't safe. That quip about John's legs—what was he thinking, letting that slip out? Oh, goodness. His mind had gotten used to the effects of narcotics in the years since his other injuries, but he's compromised by blood loss now, and the dosage is stronger.</p><p>He has to protect himself. But <em>how?</em></p><p>John interrupts his train of thought. "I'd offer to take you for another beer," he says, speaking over the music, "but I think Shaw would kill me."</p><p>Harold nods once in acknowledgment. Scotch was his drink of choice that night, not beer, but the trip out <em>had</em> been helpful when his mind wouldn't stop conjuring images of Root slipping out of the shadows and doing terrible things to him. Except it's not Root's nightmarish, saccharine smile he sees when he closes his eyes these days, but a rail-thin man with ghostly skin and a shaved head and a sharp, sharp knife.</p><p>"I could get you some tea, I guess," John continues, and it's an unexpected punch of ice to the chest. "Shaw said it'd be okay."</p><p>Tea. He'd been making tea that day, had just finished the brew and was getting ready to carry the pot to the living room when Everett said, <em>"Mr., uh...Finch, was it?"</em> and he turned around.</p><p>The teapot fell from his grasp when the blade plunged into his belly, spilled tea all over the floor as he grabbed for the knife, as he clutched at Everett's cold hands and his bony wrist and stared into the man's green eyes, saying, <em>"Please stop. I think you've already killed me. Please, this is unnecessary."</em> The warm liquid soaked his trousers when he hit the floor—he can still <em>smell</em> it, grass and his own metallic blood, the thought of the once-peaceful green aroma making his stomach roil and his heart pound.</p><p>"No, thank you," he says, quietly, his voice hollow, not caring if John can hear him or not, and Bear nuzzles closer. Harold decides to turn his attention to the dog, scratching behind Bear's ears, closing his eyes when his gaze lingers too long on the bandages on his bone white fingers. But Everett's face lurks there, Everett's hateful eyes, so Harold's snap open again, and he stares out the window at the city passing by.</p><p>They aren't going directly to his townhouse—of course they're not; he and John are both far too paranoid for anything less than CIA-grade evasive maneuvers, even when there's supposedly no danger. But the surrounding buildings are going from merely familiar to recognizably close to home, and a mixture of excitement, relief, and dread churns in his heart.</p><p>It's been years since he last lived with someone. He doesn't know if he can do this. He's half-tempted to tell John to take him back to the safehouse, his own terrifying memories be damned, or to pull a few strings and throw enough money around to be admitted to a hospital without the police investigating his injuries. John has his address now, but that's easily taken care of, though it would be a shame to sell a house he's so fond of. But judging by the troubled look in John's eyes and the grim set of his jaw, such a move would likely hurt John quite deeply.</p><p>This whole experience has hurt John quite deeply, he suspects. When he was bleeding out beneath John's hands, crying out in pain whenever John increased the pressure on his wounds, John was frantic, visibly terrified. His last clear memory before waking up from surgery is of seeing John in tears, begging him to stay awake, to stay with him. And if John hadn't been there that day, or hadn't arrived so quickly, Harold suspects he himself wouldn't be here now.</p><p>"I don't feel that I have adequately expressed my gratitude for all that you've done for me recently, Mr. Reese," he says. John's eyes meet his in the mirror again, and John turns the music down. "None of this is what you signed on for. I'm sorry. You don't have—"</p><p>"I signed on to help people," John says. "You need some help. Nothing to be ashamed of. Just because your number didn't come up..." He pauses. "You need some help. And you're my friend. I couldn't protect you, but I <em>can</em> help you, if you'll let me."</p><p>"Perhaps I should pay you a bonus for all this."</p><p>"Keep it," John says. "Better yet, give it to Shaw. She's the one who helped stitch you back up. I'm just helping a friend."</p><p>Harold smiles, warmth building in his heart. John is a very good man, he thinks, and went a fair bit above and beyond himself. Still, he can't help offering John an out, should he need it. "Nevertheless, if you grow tired of dealing with me, there will be no negative consequences when—"</p><p>"I've dealt with some pretty difficult people," John interrupts, with a smirk. "I think I can handle you." His eyes crinkling further—and, oh, goodness, they are quite lovely when sparkling with mirth—John adds, "Though, uh, not sure about your taste in music."</p><p>Harold lets out a laugh. It's instantly truncated with a pained, "Oh," and leaves him clutching the pillow to his belly, but he doesn't regret it. In the mirror, John's gaze turns concerned, and Harold gives him a weak smile. "I have headphones at home," he assures John, his voice strained. "I can—"</p><p>"You can listen to your screeching cats all you want, Harold." John's eyes light up again. "It's your house. Doesn't mean I have to like it, but I can deal with it."</p><p>"It seems a bit rude to make your stay with me intolerable," Harold says, "considering that you are going to be there to help me with a great many things, some of them very...unpleasant."</p><p>"I don't mind," John says. "Really. You did the same for me when I got shot. You'd do it if I got hurt worse than that. Why would I mind helping you?"</p><p>He had, hadn't he? The only thing is..."You bounced back from that a lot faster than I will from this. As Ms. Shaw said, I'm looking at weeks of recovery, possibly even months."</p><p>"Then I'll wipe your ass for you for months." Harold cringes, but John's gaze remains steady. "I really don't mind taking care of you. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to. You're hurting. You need help. I'm willing. Let me help you."</p><p>"I—"</p><p>"Look, Harold, if this were me, you'd be fussing over me constantly and telling me to use that cushion or something," John says. "If it's okay for you to take care of me, why isn't it okay for me to take care of you?"</p><p>Harold considers John's words, his tone, and finds no evidence of mockery or insincerity. So he nods, and says, "Very well. Though I'll give you fair warning—I'm not very good at accepting other people's assistance."</p><p>Amused, John says, "Finch, tell me something I don't know."</p><p>The car ride comes to a close soon after, in front of Harold Wren's towering brownstone. Bear perks up slightly, recognizing their location, but is far calmer than usual, as though he's wary of Harold's injuries. In thanks, Harold scratches him behind the ears, and notices the bandages on several of his fingers are dangling from his hand, ready to fall off, others badly rumpled from clutching the pillow. How annoying.</p><p>"Nice place," John says, looking over the townhouse's dark brownstone façade and bay windows, and Harold feels a strange mix of insecurity and defensiveness curdling in his stomach. "Didn't find this one. Lot of steps."</p><p>"The basement is wheelchair accessible," Harold says. He starts peeling off the bandages, balling them up and tucking them in his pocket one-by-one. "Bit of a tight fit when wheeling yourself in, but with you pushing me in, it shouldn't be a problem." The idea of having someone wheel him around stings a tad, as does the idea of it being a foregone conclusion, but reason tells him to allow it.</p><p>"I'm guessing there's an elevator?"</p><p>"Yes. And, even if there wasn't, the basement is a fully-furnished apartment, and it's quite comfortable. I've never rented it out, but it's there, in the very unlikely event the need for a tenant arises...or in case I need to stay down there for a time."</p><p>John purses his lips, then says, after a while, "Huh."</p><p>"It's all very excessive, I know," Harold says, starting to ramble, "far more space than I need, but I felt it appropriate for Harold Wren. Especially with his antiquing habit and his affinity for rare books."</p><p>And there'd been a time decades ago, for the first several years after Will was born, that he'd thought he might have a family of his own someday. He'd bought the house as soon as he could afford it with that goal in mind. By the time he met Grace, he'd dismissed the idea entirely, had made the prospect of having children too dangerous with his work on The Machine. But he'd kept the house anyway. For someone who once prided himself on his rationality, he always has been a bit sentimental. There are a few too many good memories with Nathan haunting this place.</p><p>John doesn't need to know all of that, so Harold goes on, saying, "Plenty of space for a personal library, a workroom for my computers, everything—and more." He pauses. "I have other residences that are likely more appropriate for an extended recovery from these sorts of injuries. I just..."</p><p>"You wanted to go home," John says, kindly. "You feel secure here. Nice neighborhood, lived here a while, probably vetted the neighbors as thoroughly as you vetted me..."</p><p>"None of them have any reason to come after me," Harold says. "I'm polite, I stay out of their way. Mrs. Cooper next door is the only one who goes out of their way to interact with me. Very kind woman from the south, married well, widow. Husband inherited the place, passed about six years ago. I used to help her out every now and then before...before I was injured. She returned the favor." He could have called her if he experienced complications, he supposes, except how would he explain how he'd been hurt this time? No, how <em>will</em> he explain?</p><p>"Is that her coming this way?" John says, and, very carefully, Harold turns to look out the back window. "Tall old woman with a cane?"</p><p>"Yes, that's her." Harold points to the house to the right of his own. "She lives in that one."</p><p>"Want to avoid her, or..."</p><p>Harold sighs heavily. What does he want? To lie down, mostly. His energy is waning. The quickest route to his bed is through her. "I'm quite tired," he says. "I'll let you come up with our backstory, Mr. Reese, and your identity."</p><p>John is quiet for a moment. "Warren, I think. We had a meeting, you got sick, I took you to the hospital, and when I found out you had surgery and you lived alone, I stuck around."</p><p>"Very kind of you, Mr. Warren," Harold says, and John shrugs a shoulder. "What did I have?"</p><p>"Bowel obstruction," John replies. "Shaw said that'd probably work as an excuse for most people. Say anything about the guts, and they won't want to know more."</p><p>"Indeed." He certainly wouldn't pry, and had avoided paying much attention to...certain bodily functions when John was shot and needed assistance. Even his own digestive issues repulse him. "It doesn't seem to faze you, however."</p><p>"I've been shot and stabbed in my gut enough times that things don't work quite right in there anymore," John says, and, oh, Harold hadn't picked up on that before.</p><p>"Is that something I'm going to have to worry about, do you think?" Oh, he'd hate to have to cope with more chronic issues on top of the existing ones.</p><p>John hesitates, just long enough to confirm Harold's suspicions—there could be problems in the future. His exhaustion grows.</p><p>"Hard to say," John says, finally. "You got hurt pretty bad." Harold sighs heavily. "I know. I'm sorry." John pauses. "But what's going on right now? I saw worse things in my old line of work. Don't think Mrs. Cooper has that kind of experience under her belt."</p><p>"No," Harold says. "No, she doesn't. And I don't think she'll dig too deeply. She'll pry about my well-being, but not the particulars." He is much too tired for further conversation. "All these things to consider," he murmurs, letting his eyes fall shut.</p><p>"Yeah. You ever consider trying for a normal life again, Finch?" John opens his door, and Harold sighs.</p><p>"I don't think 'normal' is in the cards for any of us, Mr. Reese," Harold replies. "Not anymore. Best we can do is make our own normal."</p><p>Getting out of the car is as difficult as getting into it, and once Harold is loaded into the wheelchair, his body takes it as permission to doze off again, even with Bear's leash in one hand and his IV bag in the other. He tries to keep up with John's conversation with Mrs. Cooper, but her words are as coherent as the trombone masquerading for adult speech in a Charlie Brown cartoon. At one point, John gives Harold's shoulder a companionable pat and leaves his hand there, and Harold manages to open his eyes just long enough to smile at Mildred.</p><p>"You poor thing," she says, with a sad smile. "You take care of yourself, okay, hon?"</p><p>"I'll try," Harold says.</p><p>At the same time John says, "I'll make sure he does," and squeezes Harold's shoulder. Harold's heavy eyes fall shut again.</p><p>There's nothing for him to worry about. More than a year ago, he reprogrammed his security systems to alert John if someone attempted to break into any of his residences. John mustn't have had any trouble unlocking the basement door or the elevator. When he gave John the address for the house, he also told him the security codes, and the fact that neither of their phones are ringing in alarm over an attempted break-in suggests that John remembered them with ease and won't be summoned for an "emergency" he caused.</p><p>So Harold doesn't bother forcing himself awake. Instead, he draws John's jacket tighter around himself against the chill in the air and tries to nap through the growing pain in his belly. Another dose of painkillers will be needed soon, but for now, perhaps he can sleep through...</p><p>John's jacket. He realizes his mistake, and his eyes snap open. Oh, dear. He was wearing it while John talked to Mrs. Cooper, had it draped over his shoulders, hadn't bothered to remove it. It is quite obviously too large for him, matches John's black trousers perfectly...</p><p>"I'm still wearing your jacket," Harold says, as John wheels him into the elevator.</p><p>"You're cold," John says, clearly not understanding the issue. "It's okay."</p><p>"No, it...Mrs. Cooper saw me wearing it. She's going to think that we're a couple."</p><p>"Is that a bad thing?" John asks, followed by an absent, "What floor are we going to?"</p><p>"Four," Harold replies, and John presses the button.</p><p>"Okay. Now, how many people do you think want to stay with a sick guy they've only met through work? Finch, even John Warren's not that nice. She's gonna think we're dating and weren't comfortable with telling her that. It's a better explanation than the one we actually gave her. It'll be fine."</p><p>Oh. John is right, isn't he? It's simple. It's perfect. But, as far as he knows, John is straight. "And you're okay with this?"</p><p>Before John can answer, the elevator stops with a cheery ding. "Yeah. I'm okay with it."</p><p>As soon as the door opens, Bear scampers not for the dog bed near the balcony doors, but Harold's large and cozy one. Harold has no energy to scold him, but John does, yelling for Bear to get down. Harold sits back and watches, rubbing gently at his abdomen. It hurts quite badly, an aching, cramping, burning soreness filling most of his midsection. His hands don't help much, but they do offer the illusion of doing something, and it's somewhat comforting, so he moves his palms in careful strokes over his belly, and watches John fight a losing battle with their stubborn dog.</p><p>"John, it's alright," Harold says, after a while. "I let him on the bed sometimes. As long as he leaves me some room..."</p><p>John chuckles, shaking his head. "Always knew you were a softy." He turns his attention to the room around him, taking it in, eyes moving over the towering white bookshelves lining most of the azure walls, the gas fireplace across from the vast and ornate antique bed, the tall windows and glass door looking out onto the balcony and the back garden. His attention lingers on the heavier objects in the room—seeing potential weapons, Harold suspects—and the shadows and doors and windows. The bathroom and the closet are likely hiding places in his mind, for them and foes alike, while the balcony and the glass are vulnerabilities.</p><p>Harold cannot pretend he hasn't thought the exact same thing.</p><p>He starts to insist that his security system is incredible and self-designed, and that he has Bear around besides, but when John looks at him again, he freezes, and his eyes go wide with concern.</p><p>"Harold," he says, "you're bleeding."</p><p>"What?" Harold looks down with confusion as John rushes to his side, and finds streaks of red staining the heathered gray sweatshirt. "Oh. Oh, dear. That's..." It could be a disaster, an emergency, could take him right back to the safehouse for more stitches, more surgery. "Not good."</p><p>"Hang on, hang on." John tugs up the hem of Harold's shirt, baring his middle.</p><p>Harold's brain stumbles to a stop.</p><p>He hadn't taken a look at his abdomen before, not when he got dressed nor when it was being examined. Now, he stares, unable to look away. It juts out further than normal, visibly swollen, taut. Dark bruises linger on pale, newly-hairless skin, signs of the recent blood loss, a stormy contrast to the patches of stark white gauze spread across his belly. Largest of all is the bandage stretching down the middle, long and horrifying to look at, not from Everett but from Shaw or Madani. But the others—so many wounds...</p><p>"Oh, god," he says, cold nausea creeping through him as he stares. Seven times. He was stabbed seven times, was nearly killed—how is he still alive?</p><p>The answer to that question jolts him from his thoughts. "Where's the blood coming from?" John says, leaning in close, looking over Harold's belly, not letting an inch go unchecked. He touches it carefully, just the barest hint of pressure as he studies every incision, but there is no fresh blood coming from any of them.</p><p>A droplet of red falls from somewhere, landing between bandages and trickling down the curve of his belly. John furrows his brow, but Harold figures it out, spotting the glistening red on his injured fingers and cupping his hands to catch the blood. "Mr. Reese, it's my hand. John."</p><p>John looks up, and Harold shows him his fingers. "It's my hand," he repeats. "It's bleeding. My fingers are bleeding again." He can't believe he didn't notice it already. "The bandages came off. I shouldn't have been holding Bear's leash after."</p><p>John blows out a hard breath through pursed lips, shoulders sagging. "Okay, that. I can take care of that. I know you've got a first aid kit around here somewhere."</p><p>"Bathroom." Harold points to the door. "Next to the door we just came through. But could you perhaps help me relocate to the bed first? I don't think my insides liked the journey home."</p><p>"Yeah, sure." John tugs back the covers, and as soon as he does, Bear burrows underneath.</p><p>"How polite," Harold says, watching him settle, and John chuckles weakly.</p><p>"Straight to the point," John says. "You want me to pick you up, or..."</p><p>Harold sighs. Normally such a thing would be humiliating, but right now, he can't imagine a more pleasant alternative. "It seems that would be most efficient, Mr. Reese," he replies.</p><p>"Okay," John says, with a sad smile. Then, with little effort, he scoops Harold up in his arms, leaving his jacket behind on the wheelchair, and carries Harold to the bed.</p><p>Harold grits his teeth against the wave of renewed pain that movement sends through his middle, but soon enough, he is in the embrace of his own bed, settling in the decadent comfort of the familiar with a groan of relief. While he misses the heating pads from the safehouse, little can compare to the bliss of returning to his own bed, to the welcoming cushion of a mattress that knows how to support his battered old bones, to luxurious cotton sheets that caress his tired skin.</p><p><em>Much better,</em> he thinks, though he still has to hold his hands up carefully to avoid making a mess of his pale blue bedclothes and his dog. He kicks off his slippers, letting them hit the floor with noisy thumps, and basks in the feeling of comfort on his skin instead of wallowing in pain, running his foot over the soft sheets. Bear takes advantage of his close proximity, snuggling up to him with great care for his wounds, warm and concerned against his side, and, finally, Harold feels like he's home.</p><p>It's such a simple thing—being back in his own bed—but it's <em>incredible</em>.</p><p>He doesn't even notice John's departure until John returns and gently takes hold of his hand. "Now," John says, absently running his thumb over the pale pink scar left by Root, "let's see what we've got here."</p><p>Through heavy eyes, Harold watches as John examines his hand, John's frown steadily worsening.  Wordlessly, John fetches an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit, tearing open the small packet, then gets to work, warning, "It's gonna sting. Sorry."</p><p>"I know—" Harold begins, but the sharp burn of alcohol on a cut makes him hiss. "—the drill. Oh, dear. They're worse than I thought, aren't they?"</p><p>"Nothing that can't be patched up," John says. His touch is so careful, so kind as he tends to every little nick and gash, wiping them all clean. Each swipe of the towelette stings Harold's fingers, but John somehow manages not to injure them further. When he's finished, he fetches another wipe, and a pile of adhesive bandages. Harold watches his face, the intensity of his gaze beneath his long eyelashes, his thinly-concealed pain. Every hiss leaves John wincing, every sound Harold makes deepens John's frown, until Harold feels like the one who should apologize.</p><p>"It was rather foolish of me, wasn't it?" Harold says, when the pain on John's face grows to be too much. "Grabbing for the knife."</p><p>John looks up at him, stricken, then shakes his head. "It was a reflex," he says, turning his attention to securing another bandage on Harold's index finger, then facing him again with sad, sad eyes. "Instinct. A guy was shoving a knife into your gut." A fleeting memory of the thrust of the knife flashes through Harold's head, cold silver and hot pain rammed between his fingers. "You wanted to stop him."</p><p>"I should've known it wouldn't work. I could've lost the use of my hand. I should've—" Harold cuts himself off, heaving a sigh. "I'm sorry. I keep going around in the same circles. I can't..." He waves his free hand toward his head. "I still can't make sense of it all."</p><p>"You won't for a while. It just happened," John says, letting go of him. "You're not gonna be okay for a while. You're tired, and you're hurting, and your head's all messed up. It's gonna be a while before any of that changes, Harold. And guess what?" His mouth curves in a small smile. "I'll be sticking around until it does, and after. Okay?</p><p>"Just...I know you're not really one for talking about things—I'm not either," John continues. "But if things get bad..." His eyes meet Harold's, earnest and blue. "—you can tell me, and I'll do whatever I can to help."</p><p>Harold nods, and, after a moment, gets out, "It is...exceptionally difficult. Everything. I..." His insides gurgle painfully, and he puts his hand to his belly. "It hurts."</p><p>"I can do something about that," John says, and lays his hand over Harold's. "You gonna be okay if I go back to the car and leave Bear in charge for a little bit?"</p><p>Bear perks up at the sound of his name, and pillows his warm, heavy head on Harold's chest. "I think so," Harold replies, scratching Bear's head through the covers, and can hear the uncertainty slipping into his voice.</p><p>"I won't be too long, Finch. I promise."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once he's settled in, all of his wounds bandaged, those lovely heating pads beneath him, and his medical paraphernalia set up, Harold spends most of his time dozing.</p><p>The first night, John gives him a fresh dose of morphine, and Harold is mostly lost to the world until well into the early hours of the morning, oblivious to his next dose entirely, only waking whenever the restroom or the water glass beckons—and, once, his toothbrush—then falling back into his warm cocoon of oblivion. He thinks he wakes briefly to having his blood pressure checked, to breathing exercises with the spirometer thing Shaw gave them, to having the dressings on his abdomen changed, but those might all be false memories, echoes of the other times he's been checked on and cared for since the stabbing.</p><p>Around him, flowers appear, bouquets filling the room, soon joined by balloons, even a few gift baskets overflowing with fruit he cannot eat. It's confusing at first, until it dawns on him that they're meant to wish him well. Word must be getting around at Universal Heritage, then. He wonders if they're showing up at his other identities' homes as well.</p><p>He doesn't have the energy to care. Let someone else deal with the insincere things. Like John has been doing, arranging them where Harold can see them, but where they won't interfere with his view of the outdoors or his path to the bathroom. He is so very grateful for John.</p><p>Perhaps having someone around who truly cares about him won't be so bad after all.</p><p>Every time his eyes open, it seems John is there, hovering over him, asking how he's doing. The more sleep-deprived John gets, the punchier he becomes, trading, <em>"How're you feeling?"</em> for, <em>"How's that belly?"</em> or even, <em>"How's that tummy?"</em> a few times, like Harold is a child with a stomachache, not a badly-injured adult.</p><p>"Go to sleep, Mr. Reese," Harold tells him, not bothering to stay awake long enough to tell if John obeys.</p><p>Daylight rolls around, joined by smells of meat that Harold has zero desire to eat, but that's not what woke him. The sound of pounding feet and skittering canine claws comes rushing down the hallway. Harold's heart jolts him completely awake, a burst of fear flaring through him. He lies still, tense, listening hard, his ears practically clinging to the sound. The noises retreat, then draw closer again, retreat, draw closer. He exhales. John and Bear are just exercising, then. Good. Harold wills his heart to calm down, and, when it does, he gives in to the pull of his heavy eyelids again.</p><p>Waking for good is marginally less unpleasant, brought about by John coming in to remind him to breathe into that annoying device again.</p><p>"Is this really necessary?" Harold asks, eying the plastic contraption with disdain. While the spirometer seems harmless enough, it <em>hurts</em> to inhale deeply, especially for as long as the little rattling gauge requires.</p><p>"You had some issues with your breathing while you were under, and Shaw doesn't want you getting pneumonia while you're down for the count like this, and neither do I—or you," John says. "And deep breathing's good for you." At Harold's continued hesitance, he adds, "C'mon—I'll make you a cup of tea," and Harold's mind goes straight to tea and blood pooling on the safehouse floor.</p><p>He freezes.</p><p>It seems foolish to him to be so frightened by the prospect of <em>tea</em>, but Harold's insides and limbs lock up at the word like some sort of exception error has been thrown, and he stares blankly at John for far too long until he manages a weak, "No, thank you."</p><p>"Okay," John says, gentle and understanding, setting the spirometer aside. "How about—I saw some herbal stuff down in the kitchen, on the counter, some vanilla chamomile sleep stuff. Would that be okay?"</p><p>Harold considers it, his mind moving slow and sluggish with fear, and eventually decides, "That might be fine." It might calm his nerves a tad, at least. But the light-colored liquid..."If it's not too much trouble, could you bring it to me in a dark mug, though, please?"</p><p>Without a single hint of mockery, John smiles slightly, and says, "You got it, Finch."</p><p>Harold dozes off again, his tired mind drifting, and wakes to John returning with a tray carrying two dark blue mugs and a plate. All that's on John's plate are a few pieces of buttered toast, halved into neat triangles. "I hope that's not all you're having for breakfast this morning, Mr. Reese," he teases, as John carefully hands him a mug, and Bear abandons the bed in favor of begging for bites.</p><p>"Didn't want to torture you with a bunch of food you can't have," John says, sitting on an armchair beside the bed that was almost certainly in the study upstairs when Harold first fell asleep. He wonders if the emerald green wingback served as John's bed, but decides against asking. He'll find out later. "Seemed kind of rude, too—to eat when you're not eating."</p><p>"I'm assuming there's some sort of nutrition going into me through this," Harold says, holding up his arm, showing off the IV. "So I suppose <em>I'm</em> the rude one, actually." John cracks a small smile. "And I <em>did</em> smell the bacon."</p><p>Harold brings the mug close to his lips and takes a cautious sniff of the steam wafting from within. Vanilla, herbs—mint and chamomile and the faint tang of lemongrass. His heart calms down, and he blows on the piping hot drink, enjoying the warmth of the mug on his now perpetually-cold hands. Perhaps he should tell John to light the gas fireplace, or procure him some gloves. "And also—is that beef?"</p><p>John swallows a bite of toast, and says, "Making soup. Some of that's gonna be your lunch, if your stomach can handle it. The broth. Figured you'd like it more than bouillon."</p><p>That is most likely true. Few of the things in the bag of "clear diet stuff" Shaw and Fusco threw together seemed appetizing, but something fresh, made from substances easily recognizable as food? "I'll give it a try." His stomach has been mostly calm throughout this ordeal, apart from queasiness born of panic. He wonders if something for nausea is part of the cocktail of chemicals being pumped into his body. While his mind is on the subject of nausea, he decides to add, "Provided it's not served alongside any sort of gelatin dessert," wrinkling his nose.</p><p>John's face breaks out in a truly obnoxious grin. "Not a fan of Jell-O?"</p><p>Harold cringes, his whole face screwing up with distaste. "Lord, no. The jiggling, the unnatural colors, the taste—no."</p><p>For some reason, John seems delighted. Another new tidbit of knowledge freely given, Harold supposes. "Come on, Harold. There's always room for Jell-O."</p><p>"In that case, then I shall have to try to remember what my aunt used to put in her allegedly-famous Jell-O Salad. See if you can stomach it." He probably shouldn't be spilling these secrets, innocuous as they may be, but John's <em>smile</em>...except the possibility of being served one of his least favorite desserts in jest cannot be ignored. "I, however, have no desire to learn what vomiting with a belly full of stitches feels like, so if you don't mind..."</p><p>"Jell-O salad? I've probably eaten worse," John says, and when Harold's scowl deepens, John relents. "Okay, no Jell-O for you. Fruit juice? I think Fusco threw in a bottle of grape."</p><p>"Acceptable." As is the tea John brought him—lightly sweetened, smelling and tasting strongly of vanilla and herbs, nothing at all like his once-beloved sencha. "As is this. Thank you."</p><p>He does hope the aversion is temporary. His tea has been a source of great comfort to him for many years. To have that stripped away makes him <em>ache</em>. It took months for him to be able to eat apples again after he was abducted, though juice was, strangely enough, fine. Even now, he still has trouble eating them at times. Losing his tea?</p><p>"You okay, Harold?" John says, pulling him out of his reverie.</p><p>"Fine," Harold replies, forcing a smile. "Just fine, Mr. Reese." At John's disbelieving look, he adds, "A bit tired. That's all. I think once I've finished this, I'll have another nap." It seems exceptionally lazy to do such a thing, when the world is still spinning around him. Convalescence never has suited him. But, now that the idea has crossed his mind, he's not sure he'll be able to avoid it. "Would you mind helping me change into something more comfortable?"</p><p>"Not a problem," John says. "Long as you finish your breakfast—" He gestures to Harold's mug. "—first."</p><p>Harold's hackles start to rise, just a tad, sparing a glare for John as he takes a sip. "Do you intend to nag me about these sorts of things throughout your stay, Mr. Reese?"</p><p>John grins and leans back in his chair. "Well, it's either me nagging or Shaw tying you down and forcing you to drink. Take your pick."</p><p>"Or I could just disappear." It wouldn't be easy, but he has another residence nearby, and he's pulled off more difficult disappearing acts before. If he could manage to hide from the government with cracks in his spine, surely he could manage to hide from the rest of the world with stitches in his intestines. "I'm certain I could find a way out of here, even in this condition."</p><p>Just for a moment, John's eyes turn wide and fearful, before carefully cultivated neutrality is restored. "Don't do that," he says, not quite keeping the distress from his voice. "I'm sorry. Please. Don't leave."</p><p>Harold's heart breaks. John almost lost a friend. He cannot dismiss that just because <em>he</em> was the friend in question. To leave, to vanish so soon after nearly being lost forever would be cruel, wouldn't it? "Don't worry, John," he says, softly, "I'll save the strength it would take for that for a real emergency."</p><p>John's eyes brighten a little, and the almost imperceptible tension in his limbs melts away. "Good," he says. "And I'll try to keep from fussing too much."</p><p>"Thank you." Harold takes another drink—he did intend to finish his tea anyway. It feels good on his throat, soothing and warm as it curls up in his stomach, a precious bit of comfort for his tender belly. But it still rankles to be pushed into things when..."I've been taking care of myself for nearly as long as you've been alive, Mr. Reese. And, yes, there are things I cannot do, especially at the moment. Let me handle the ones I can."</p><p>"Okay," John replies. "I'll try."</p><p>Once the tea is halfway gone and lukewarm, and John's toast has vanished into his and Bear's mouths, Harold gets the bright idea to select his pajamas himself. John goes along with the plan, helping him partway out of bed, and Harold revises his earlier assessment: There will be no disappearing acts from him in the near future. In an instant, he goes from halfway comfortable yet severely sore to agony, groaning and doubling over around his midsection, letting a vehement, "Oh, <em>shit,</em>" slip loose as he sags against John. "I don't think this is going to work after all."</p><p>"I don't either." John eases him back into bed, and Harold curls up around his belly, clutching it carefully, shifting when he tugs his IV a little too hard. "Where do you keep your pajamas?"</p><p>"Walk-in closet," Harold gets out. "Drawers. Pick some of the silk ones, please."</p><p>"Okay." John rubs his shoulder and gives it a light squeeze, then takes off, and Harold misses the warm weight of his hand as soon as it's gone.</p><p>But he's not alone for long. Bear joins him on the bed, and Harold wraps an arm around him, holding him close, not minding that he smells of dog. Somehow, like John's presence, he's come to associate the smell with comfort, with safety and care. Strange, really. He never expected to become a dog person this late in his life, and yet here he is.</p><p>Bear ruins the moment by licking his face, smudging his glasses, but Harold's disgusted, "Eurgh," lacks heat. "Oh, that was...and of course you say nothing in apology, you terrible menace," Harold grouses, as Bear stares at him, completely unrepentant. Harold heaves a sigh, and starts scratching the back of Bear's neck, running his fingers through thick, soft fur that is, for once, not obstructed by a collar. Very quietly, he confides, "I hurt." Bear, of course, has no words for him, but does move his big ears like he's listening. Harold strokes one of those ears between his fingers, rubbing the velvety fur, and Bear tolerates it without resistance. "You've already picked up on that, though. I suppose you can smell the damage, can't you?"</p><p>He gives in to the urge to bury his face against Bear's warm body. "Thank you," he says, voice muffled against Bear's fur. "You're such a good boy. I'm glad you're here." He needs to thank John for acquiring the smelly, kind-hearted beast as well. The sheer comfort of Bear's presence is indescribable.</p><p>The comfort of John's presence is indescribable, too. Despite his protests, he does feel safer with John around, and cared for. If he were alone with his wounds, he's not sure he'd make it this time. He can tell he came so close to dying, can feel it in every split-apart inch of his belly, in the exhaustion weighing so heavily on his body that his very bones ache. Even after the bombing, he didn't feel this terrible. This was almost the end for him. If he didn't have John...</p><p>Inside the closet, the sound of rummaging stops for a moment. Harold absently wonders if John made all that noise for his benefit, worried silence might spook him in his traumatized state. But Everett didn't sneak up on him. He heard every footfall before Everett spoke to him with his nasal voice, and all the ones after—and, oh, just thinking of it has the cold fear creeping into his chest again and seizing his breath like a vise. He needs to <em>stop</em>.</p><p>"Finch?" John says, softly, from across the room. "Everything okay?"</p><p>"Just fine, Mr. Reese," Harold lies, and rolls onto his back, cradling his belly and groaning along the way. Bear lets out a disappointed whine. Harold takes a slow breath, wary of his wounds, hoping it'll calm his racing heart. He's fine. Everett is dead. John is here. He's <em>safe</em>. In pain, yes... "Except I feel like my intestines are going to go flying out through my incisions whenever I move." But he's safe.</p><p>He's <em>safe</em>. Had John been in the safehouse that day, Everett never would've gotten anywhere near him with a knife. John would've kept him safe. John <em>will</em> keep him safe, or die trying.</p><p>"I know that feeling. These okay?" John holds up a set of gold silk pajamas with printed sparrows taking flight from dark branches all over the shining cloth. "Thought they were cute."</p><p>"They should be fine," Harold replies. They'll be comfortable, and they weren't a gift from anyone—just something that caught his eye, a pattern he liked and had made into a custom set. A bit of a fanciful choice, yes, but he does have his moments of private whimsy.</p><p>It finally registers that John is still clad in one of his favored black suits, albeit sans jacket and shoes, likely from his safehouse stash. "I also have some clothing that should fit you in the guest room," Harold says, as John makes his way over, and John stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised. "Casualwear, pajamas, that sort of thing—in case of an emergency." They're a bit more high-end than the thrift store bargains John reaches for when he's not in a suit, but they should be satisfactory. When he has the energy, he should have someone bring more, he thinks.</p><p>John's surprise turns into a teasing smirk. "You expected me to come over sometime, Harold?"</p><p>"Hardly." Harold ignores the unexpected thrill in his blood at the mention of John visiting, the possible reasons for John needing fresh clothing—and the brief look of genuine disappointment on John's face. He'd be lying if he said the thought of John visiting had never occurred to him, or of John <em>wanting</em> him. A fleeting fantasy. Nothing more. "It seemed prudent to have such things on hand at multiple residences, in case they were needed. I recently acquired a few things for Ms. Shaw as well, and I can't imagine having her as a guest.</p><p>"But my point is that, realistically, you're going to be here for a while. You might as well be comfortable while you're here."</p><p>"Okay," John says, mollified, and gets moving again. "Once I've taken care of you—" He waves the pajamas in the air. "—I'll check those out. Thanks."</p><p>Getting Harold out of the sweatshirt alone takes time, but John manages it, taking down the IV bag, unhooking wires and silencing monitors with brisk efficiency. He lets Harold handle the actual shirt removal, a slow and painful—and surprisingly exhausting—ordeal, but Harold is grateful for the opportunity. For a moment, he feels almost normal, or at least as close as he's going to get to it for a while.</p><p>It gives him enough of a boost to tease, "So how much snooping—no, I'm sorry, <em>reconnaissance</em> have you been doing?" as John sets his shirt aside, in a messy bundle at the foot of the bed.</p><p>"Not as much as you think," John replies, with a brief, amused grin. "Checked out in there, the bathroom, the kitchen. Been doing a few quick sweeps every few hours, just in case—windows, doors. That's pretty much it. Didn't even pick any locks." He points a thumb toward the chair. "Did move a chair, though. I'll put it back when you're feeling better."</p><p>"I'm impressed," Harold says, as John crouches down to help with his sweatpants. "I was expecting—" Harold lifts himself up, and pain tears across his middle. Gasping, eyes watering, he drops back down, clutching his middle. "That was a mistake," he gets out, between ragged breaths. "Oh, that was a mistake."</p><p>"Let me help you out," John says, reaching for him, and Harold holds up a hand.</p><p>"Give me a moment, please."</p><p>"Okay." John sits down beside him, resting a hand on Harold's back, and waits, quietly and patiently. When Harold's breathing evens out, he moves quickly, getting Harold's sweatpants down to his knees before he can hurt himself again, then giving him another break. "What were you expecting?"</p><p>What? Oh, right. "I was expecting your curiosity to have gotten the better of you." But John always has been very good at surprising him.</p><p>"Maybe I'm hoping you'll invite me over for dinner sometime," John says, with one of those small, sly smiles of his. It soon falls away. "Listen: this isn't any fun for me. I wanted to find your place, but not like this. Not when it means you being hurt. I'm here for you, not for me. Now that I've got a chair, I'll stick to your room, the kitchen, the back yard, the bathrooms—not much of a reason for me to go anywhere else."</p><p>Harold's eyebrows rise. "You're not at all curious?"</p><p>"Sure I am," John admits. "But I'm not here for me. I'm here because you need some help, and I'm not gonna let my curiosity get in the way of that." The tension in Harold's chest eases. "If a threat pops up in another room, or if you need something, I'll go in there. But I'm not here to check out your place—I'm here to take care of my friend. That's it.</p><p>"Oh, but, uh, speaking of the kitchen," John continues, "not much in there. I found enough to feed the both of us, but..." John trails off, then brightens with amusement. "Though your instant ramen collection's pretty impressive. I thought you didn't eat stuff with ingredients like—what was that stuff?—disodium inosinate?"</p><p>Harold gives him a withering look, likely ruined by his pained breathlessness and meager clothing, and says, "We all have our vices and hypocrisies, Mr. Reese."</p><p>"Of course we do," John says, sounding <em>delighted</em>. "Now I know what happened to the stuff you bought for Leon."</p><p>"It's a terrible weakness, I admit," Harold says. "But, no, not much food in there, not on a—this <em>is</em> a Saturday, isn't it?" Time is hazy these days, but he thinks that's what his fatigue-blurred glimpse of his phone told him early this morning, and John nods once. Ah. Not entirely lost in space, then. Excellent. "Groceries and other—" Oh, what is the word? It's a longer one. He knows it. "—necessities are delivered every Monday. And I'm not much of a chef, so there's never been much of a need to keep a fully-stocked kitchen.</p><p>"You're welcome to anything in there, by the way—especially that box of cupcakes; I just bought them before—" His voice catches. "—all of this happened. Please don't let them go to waste." It's a minor tragedy that he won't get to have them. They're the most incredible vanilla bean cupcakes he's ever had, so soft and tender, buttery and delicately sweet, with the perfect balance of frosting and cake. He'd been looking forward to eating the rest of them. Now he won't get the chance, and it <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>How, he wonders, is such a small thing so distressing?</p><p>With a deep breath, Harold regains his composure a bit, and he continues, "And if there's something in particular you want—"</p><p>"I could pick some stuff up myself." Then, John holds up the pajama pants again. "Ready?"</p><p>"Why? I'm not going to suspend the service just because you're here." Harold braces himself mentally for more clothing, giving John a nod, and John quickly slides the pajama pants up his legs, and manages to get them on with minimal strain, tying them loosely below his abdomen. "You're caring for a billionaire right now. Take advantage."</p><p>"I'm just...kind of surprised." He hands Harold the sleepshirt, and helps him pull the IV bag through the sleeve, but leaves most of the process to Harold. "Extra people visiting the house. I'm guessing they're closely monitored?"</p><p>"Yes, as are you," Harold replies. "And they're not the only ones who stop by." He finishes arranging his shirt, then gets started on his buttons. "A woman named Lydia comes over to clean the place every Thursday—"</p><p>"I could do that, too," John says.</p><p>Harold presses on. "She's an older woman, very short, gray hair—so you won't shoot her when she comes in. Then there's Ryan—good kid, reddest hair and greenest thumb you've ever seen, comes by Mondays." He pauses for a moment, when his shaky, clumsy attempt at slipping a button through its hole requires more effort than expected. Good heavens, if there's anything he has a great deal of practice with, it's buttoning a damn shirt, and yet his hands don't want to cooperate. "Ryan takes care of the flowers and shrubs in the back garden and all the houseplants. My secretary at Universal Heritage, Lexie, will likely pay a visit at some point—and I'm certain you've researched Ms. Turner as thoroughly as I have."</p><p>"She's been bringing over that big jungle of flowers over there," John says. His lack of confirmation is confirmation enough, but the unease in his expression does not change. "Finch, really, is all that stuff really necessary? All these people?"</p><p>"I never have time," Harold protests. "When I'm working the numbers <em>and</em> maintaining multiple identities that live in different places? Where am I supposed to find time for grocery shopping and landscaping for multiple residences <em>and</em> cleaning each of them from top to bottom? If I tackled all of it myself, I wouldn't have a second to spare for the numbers." More reluctantly, he adds, "And some of it is...hard on me. The cleaning, the gardening—I <em>can</em> do them, I have done them, but...they're difficult."</p><p>John clearly understands immediately, and lays a hand on Harold's shoulder. "Because of your injuries," he says.</p><p>Stomach twisting unpleasantly, Harold says, mentally cursing the morphine for loosening his tongue, "Yes. I can't...certain things aren't easy for me anymore." Clothing, apparently, is one of them. He gets halfway down his belly, and, in a sudden rush, runs out of energy. "Oh, dear," he says, looking down at the bandaged bulge with dismay, tired hands falling to his lap. "I don't think this is going to work after all."</p><p>"Too swollen?" John asks, and Harold grimaces and shakes his head, his face burning hot.</p><p>"No, I...the buttons. I just..." He feels pathetic. Too tired to button his own damn shirt. God. "I have no energy. I'm sorry."</p><p>"It's okay." John immediately steps in to help, and Harold sags onto his pillows. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Harold. You almost di—" His voice catches, and he looks away, swallowing hard, then gives Harold a forced smile. "You were in rough shape for a while. If we weren't doing all this off the books, you'd still be in the hospital right now."</p><p>"I know." Harold heaves a sigh. "But I—"</p><p>"Look at it this way: Your body's really busy right now." John closes the last of the buttons and straightens Harold's shirt. "You may feel like you're not doing much, but you're healing up. The best thing you can do right now is rest. The numbers are covered. We're missing Leon getting hypnotherapy—"</p><p>That idea fills Harold with immediate horror and disgust. "Oh, <em>lord</em>..."</p><p>John chuckles. "But the numbers are covered." He places his hand lightly on Harold's stomach, just the faintest hint of warm pressure. "You can take a break, Harold." He pulls his hand away. "I promise."</p><p>Harold thinks back to when John was shot, how quickly he'd gone from death's door to champing at the bit to return to the field. <em>"Feeling a little restless here, Finch,"</em> he'd said. "And you won't get too restless hanging around here?"</p><p>"With all these books?" John gestures expansively, at the bookshelves lining every wall in the room. "Maybe I can finally catch up on my reading."</p><p>Harold huffs softly, as much of a laugh as he dares with his midsection in such a state. "You weren't very open to the option of doing that when you were shot," he points out.</p><p>Grinning, John scoops up the discarded clothes, and says, "Newfound appreciation for literature."</p><p>Harold rolls his tired eyes, and they fall shut seemingly without his permission. "Well, you'd better get started on your catching up, then. I'm not going to be very good entertainment, I'm afraid." He's so <em>exhausted</em>, and cold, from his skin to the marrow of his bones, on a level even heating pads don't reach.</p><p>Before he can complain about the latter, John pulls the covers over him, stopping just above his shoulders. "Guess that means I get to keep you entertained," John says, and pats Harold's chest. "Which might not be all that entertaining, actually. Sorry."</p><p>"I don't need entertainment." Harold slides down the bed, wincing along the way, and, once his head is on the pillow where it belongs, he tugs the blankets and comforter up to his chin. "I need socks. And the fireplace turned on, please."</p><p>"That I can handle," John says, but before he can prove it, Harold drifts off to sleep again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Convalescence might not suit him, but, to Harold's dismay, his body and mind offer him no alternatives. His bed is a refuge from the weakness in his body, from the pain in his midsection. Harold sleeps, and he sleeps, and he sleeps, accomplishing little else between naps. Music brings him some escape, John fetching him his record player—at his instruction—and playing the music he requests, but even that has to be on the simpler side. Light classical only, nothing bombastic yet. <em>Boring music,</em> Nathan would've called it.</p><p>"I kinda like this," John says, looking up from the Fleming novel he picked up earlier. "The music. It's...peaceful."</p><p>Harold smiles, pleased, and says, "It is. And no—what was it?—screaming cats."</p><p>"Thank god."</p><p>As time passes, John remains a steady fixture at his side, leaving it only rarely. He exercises in the hallway outside, takes Bear only as far as the back garden, stays only in the kitchen for as long as it takes to prep meals. His earpiece stays in, just in case Harold needs him, and he doesn't go out until Harold feels strong enough to tell him, "I suspect Bear would appreciate a proper walk by now, don't you?" one day after breakfast.</p><p>Bear hears the word "walk," and he jumps up and off the bed, tail wagging with wild enthusiasm. Harold lets out a careful laugh. "I think someone agrees with me."</p><p>Smiling, John says, "I think he does, too," and grabs Harold's phone. "You need me, you let me know." He presses the phone into Harold's weak grasp. "Just call me, and I'll be here, okay?"</p><p>Harold nods, cold dread creeping into his muscles even though he gave permission. "I'll be alright, Mr. Reese," lying through his teeth, and John gives him a gentle smile and lightly squeezes the back of his hand.</p><p>"Hey—it's okay if you're not. And I'll be listening like always." He lets go of Harold's hand and taps his ear, showing off his earpiece. "You realize you're not alright, you let me know, and I'll come right back. Okay, Finch?"</p><p>For nearly the whole time John's gone, Harold sits frozen in place, listening to every hum and creak of the house, every muffled sound of the bustling city, in search of something amiss. He can't even manage to scold himself for the paranoia—not after what happened the last time he dropped his guard. Seven knife wounds in his abdomen—what a lucky number. Perhaps it's a good thing he doesn't believe in luck.</p><p>While he's alone would be an excellent time to check up on John's activities in his home, he thinks, to review security footage. But what if he's distracted by that when something happens, he wonders. Best not to risk it.</p><p>Oh, how foolish he's being. John wouldn't have left if he wasn't safe.</p><p>Maybe he could sleep through this distress?</p><p>He tries, closing his eyes and lying back, but the spike of pain movement sends through his belly has him sitting up again and sets his mind spinning back to a moment he can't forget. And now he's alone again, cornered, far weaker than he was that day, pinned to his bed by pain as neatly as a bug to a board. If someone came after him now, he would die.</p><p>Every noise is an intruder. He holds his breath, listening, listening, listening, breathing only when he must, unmoving. Maybe he could make it to the elevator if someone broke in downstairs, then lock it down and call for help. Its walls are bulletproof. Maybe he could make it that far. But what if they come in from the balcony? Even without a belly full of wounds, he's not fast enough to get away from that. Why did he choose to stay at a place full of so many windows? Why is his heart beating so fast? Why is his pulse so loud? Why can't he breathe?</p><p>Why won't his brain shut up?</p><p>Through the corner of his eye, he spots something lying on the nightstand that doesn't belong—a pistol. No, not just a pistol—it's John's preferred handgun, his Sig Sauer, recognizable after working so closely with him for so long, its grip within easy reach. Harold exhales, the terrified breath coming out a near sob. John did not, <em>would not</em> leave his gun behind by accident, and despite his usual hatred for the things, its presence is, for once, a comfort.</p><p>He is not defenseless.</p><p>Slowly, Harold gets his breathing under control, and the tightness in his chest and limbs eases up enough for him to lie down again. It's frustrating. There'd been a time when he was just fine alone in his big, empty house, with only his books and computers and security system for company. Oh, he'd get spooked in the darkest hours of the night on occasion, but surely that was true of everyone, wasn't it?</p><p>Setting his intruder alarms to alert John of emergencies and his location helped lessen the instances of panic, as did the introduction of Bear in his life, but they still come periodically. After this? He has no idea what will help with this.</p><p>He makes it through Bear's walk without contacting John, and even manages to keep the fear at bay a bit after that first overwhelming burst. Still, he jumps when John calls to announce his return, and his heartbeat is far from calm when John and Bear come in, John carrying a pair of cups from a coffee shop nearby.</p><p>"I probably shouldn't have stopped for coffee, should I?" John sets down the cups, and takes the phone from Harold's shaking hand, while Bear leaps onto the bed and cuddles up to Harold's side, dropping his head in Harold's lap. "I'm sorry."</p><p>"Perfectly alright, Mr. Reese," Harold says, idly scratching Bear's head, and there's a tremor in his voice that he doesn't like. "It's fine."</p><p>"Thought I'd try you on another kind of tea, since you're having trouble with the usual." He holds out the smaller cup to Harold, and Harold lifts the lid, carefully inhaling steam that smells more of flowers than grass, the sweet scent reminiscent of honeysuckle. "It's an oolong. Taiwanese, I think she said."</p><p>"Li shan, smells like. I've had it before." He replaces the lid, but, not trusting his grip on a cup full of hot liquid, he doesn't take the cup, and John sets it back down. He wonders if John has—correctly—guessed that the reason for the little coffee shop's impressive tea collection is his influence, or that, if he digs deeply enough, he'll find that Harold is secretly the owner. "It should be acceptable. Thank you."</p><p>"Good." John gives him a faint, brief smile, and sits on the edge of the bed, rather than his pilfered chair. "How you doing?"</p><p>"I'm fine," Harold replies, far too quickly, and John nods, with a concerned frown that says he sees straight through the lie. Voice sharp, Harold adds, "Though I don't appreciate you leaving your ordnance just lying around. You know how I feel about guns."</p><p>John smiles briefly again. "Honest mistake," he says, lying through his teeth himself, but he makes no move to pick up the gun, grabbing his cup of coffee instead. "Talked to Shaw while I was out."</p><p>"Oh?" Harold says, as John takes a drink. "Dare I ask how the hypnotherapist number is progressing?"</p><p>John gives him the explanation, something to do with HR and a baseball. Leon, unsurprisingly, nearly got himself killed during the whole debacle, the lure of money and a con too difficult to resist. After a quick save by Shaw, he claimed to have seen the error of his ways, but it's hardly the first time he's made such a declaration, and likely won't be the last.</p><p>It turns out frustration and despair are excellent distractions from anxiety.</p><p>"I knew it was a bad idea to have him fill in for me," Harold says. "Wasn't there someone...wasn't Monica Jacobs available? Or—and I hesitate to suggest him—Logan Pierce?"</p><p>"Shaw asked her first," John replies. "She said no. And Pierce is out of the country. So Shaw's stuck with Leon for now."</p><p>"I'm not sure who I feel more sympathy for in this situation—Ms. Shaw or Mr. Tao. Perhaps I could provide at least <em>some</em> assistance from my bed." He finally feels stable enough to pick up his tea, and takes a small sip. The floral notes of the oolong are a bit cloying—he must remind himself to tell John that this kind is not a good substitute for sencha—but it does soothe the part of him that needs tea, that needs the warmth and sweetness in his sore body and soul.</p><p>"You could," John says, "but I think the best thing you could do for everyone is heal up fast instead. They saved the number. Would've been a lot easier with you, sure, but people like Shaw and me are used to working with what we've got, even when what we've got is...Leon." His expression turns more and more disgusted as he finishes speaking, and smooths out quickly after. "You're getting bored, aren't you?"</p><p>Is he bored? Harold considers it for a moment. "No, not really. I just...feel like I <em>should</em> be." Truthfully, the idea of jumping back into the fray right now, even on light duty, sounds <em>exhausting</em>—or perhaps he's already exhausted anyway.</p><p>"Yeah, I get it," John says, then tilts his head and looks toward the balcony. "How 'bout a change of scenery?"</p><p>Harold raises his eyebrows. A trip outside? His mind goes back to those first trips outdoors after Root abducted him, the fear that clawed at his throat every time he stepped through a door, that left him frozen in the middle of a busy street. Bear helped. John helped. And, unlike Root had been, Kyle Everett is no longer at large. Everett cannot hurt him anymore.</p><p>Except he is in constant pain from Everett's knife. Everett haunts his every waking moment. Everett is still hurting him.</p><p>"Maybe on the balcony," John continues, oblivious to the unease bubbling inside Harold, an eager smile taking shape on his face, "or the back yard? Shaw says I need to get you moving around more, and it's nice and sunny today. We could—" His face abruptly falls. "What's wrong?"</p><p>"Nothing." Harold shakes his head, and takes another sip of tea. Tea. Maybe he can pass it off as a problem with that. "I'm not sure I like this one after all, Mr. Reese."</p><p>John's expression turns sympathetic, and Harold's stomach drops. Oh, he was wrong—John can see right through him, can't he? "Listen, Finch," John says, voice soft. "Anyone wants to come after you again, they're gonna have to go through me, and you know how hard I fight." His smile returns, gentle and kind. "It's a nice day. Cold weather's really gonna kick in soon. Maybe you could grab one of these books and go read it on that nice, comfy sofa out back?"</p><p>Harold sighs heavily. John <em>knows</em> he hasn't been able to focus on anything since he got hurt, his mind flying away on a cloud of morphine and weakness every time he tries. Reading is one of the greatest pleasures in his life, and many a rare day off has been spent in the back garden with a book and a cup of sencha. It sends a pang through his heart to think of that now. In an ideal world, a period of time spent sidelined would be filled with beloved books and endless cups of green tea. Instead...</p><p>But before he can find his words, John adds, "Or I'll read it to you."</p><p>Harold stares at him, surprised, and the pang in his chest turns into an ache. "No one..." Harold clears his throat. "No one has done that for me in a long time, Mr. Reese." Not since he was in college, sick with the flu, an important essay due in mere days. That was Nathan's idea, and though he and Arthur took turns reading the textbooks, Harold found himself falling even more in love with Nathan during that long, feverish weekend.</p><p>He'd read to Grace quite often, curled up on the couch with cups of tea, or on the bed they'd shared both before and after making love. She loved his voice so very much. But they somehow never managed to do the reverse. Quite a shame. It would've been lovely. Something whimsical and fantastical would have suited her well, he's always thought.</p><p>John, though, with his quiet rasp that can transform from sarcastic to gentle to dark and deadly with a shapeshifter's ease, that can make him shudder with excitement or fear in one breath then fill him with comfort in another, combined with the intimacy of a shared book...</p><p>A shiver runs through Harold's blood. This could be dangerous territory they're about to traverse.</p><p>"Well, let's fix that," John says. "Pick out a book, and I'll read it to you."</p><p>Harold turns and looks at his bookshelves, and his mind goes utterly blank. So many books surrounding him, most of them read, some of them not. Wren is between books, having finished <em>The War of the Worlds</em> again the night before he was wounded. Woolf's <em>Orlando</em> is still sitting on his nightstand at Crane's penthouse, while a rather dull book on investments that's had him repeatedly cursing his completionist tendencies waits for his return to his recliner in Partridge's loft.</p><p>He has literally hundreds of books scattered throughout this home, some of them priceless treasures, others near garbage. He has shelves full of them covering so many of the walls on every floor. Picking one book out of a collection that's nearly a small library in its own right...he simply does not have the mental capacity for that at the moment.</p><p>Perhaps if he frames it as John's choice he can conceal that. "Since you're going to be lending your vocal talents to this, Mr. Reese, shouldn't you make the selection?"</p><p>"You've got a much better idea of what you've got in here than I do, Finch."</p><p>But John heads for the nearest bookshelf anyway, the towering one along the wall next to the bathroom door, filled with book after book of classics—or, in a few cases, books he suspects will become classics one day. Christie and Clarke mingle with Dickens, Douglas Adams meets Asimov and Atwood and Austen, Gaiman stands close to Homer and Hugo, the Shelleys and Stoker spend time near Stephen King. John pauses at several, fingers brushing the spine of Goldman's <em>The Princess Bride,</em> likely in recognition of the title, lingering for so long Harold suspects that will be his choice. It isn't. He moves on, doing an almost comical double-take at the small collection of King, then continuing his perusal.</p><p>He stops again at <em>Nineteen Eighty-Four</em> and <em>Animal Farm,</em> and he turns and says, "I'm guessing Orwell's not a good choice?"</p><p>Harold makes a face. "Not these days." Not for him, anyway.</p><p>John chuckles quietly and moves on, finally landing on Tolkien, and a well-loved copy of <em>The Hobbit.</em> "You like this one," he says, not a question, easing it carefully—reverently—from the shelf.</p><p>"Yes." A lump forms in Harold's throat, as he watches John study the cover, running his fingers along the gently softened edges. Nathan bought it for him, when he'd stunned Nathan and Arthur both by revealing he'd never read Tolkien. He spent the entire day after buried in the book, then devoured the rest of the Lord of the Rings soon after, while Nathan made sure he didn't die of dehydration or starvation.</p><p>And of course John's keen eyes found one of the small number of books on his shelves that hold personal significance beyond simply being fine literature. "Have you read it before, Mr. Reese?"</p><p>"Not yet," John replies, setting the book on the nightstand, "but I'm thinking I'm about to change that."</p><p>Getting out of the bed continues to be a painful process, full of groaning and swears and comforting words from John. This time, though, it isn't followed by the relief of sitting down, and his body slumps against John's without his permission.</p><p>"Whoa," John says, startled, and wraps his arms carefully around Harold. "It's okay, Harold. It's okay. I've got you."</p><p>Harold sighs, and leans into the magnetic pull of John's warmth and strength, embracing him, wary of his wounds. It's been so long since anyone has held him, <em>hugged</em> him, especially with such tenderness and care—and so long since he's allowed it. He's never been the sort of person to seek out hugs or other forms of physical consolation—and yet he can't help himself, not this time.</p><p>Good heavens, he feels so <em>terrible</em>, sore and frightened and so very tired. But leaning into John's broad frame brings welcome relief and respite that goes beyond the physical hurts. John's hands splay on his back, big and steadying for both body and mind, one still against the ever-aching small of it, the other settling between his shoulder blades and moving in slow strokes up and down the length of his spine.</p><p>With another sigh, Harold rests his cheek against John's, his eyes falling shut as he drinks in the comfort of John—the clean scent of evergreen soap from the guest room and the distinctive, familiar smell of John, albeit missing its usual hints of gunpowder and blood.</p><p>The firm muscles beneath his hands, finely-honed through hard work and always ready for action, tell him he is safe, protected, as do the ropes and slashes and knots of scar tissue felt so easily through John's thin black sweater. John is a protector, dangerous and powerful, and, for now, his chosen duty is guarding Harold.</p><p>His own scars and soft flesh do not say the same. John can probably feel the lines on his spine just as well as he can feel John's scars, but John neither comments on them nor studies them. "I'm sorry you're hurting so bad," John says, and his breath wafts against Harold's ear, a brush of heat on Harold's skin that makes Harold shiver, while his roaming hand finally stills right above the other.</p><p>"Thank you." He should pull away, he thinks, and steady himself, but he can't quite find the will to do it, not when this is the first thing that's made him feel almost <em>good</em> in days. His stomach is killing him, his limbs are so weak, but this? This is nearly pleasurable.</p><p>"You're welcome," John says, his voice so soft and full of care and sincerity, and Harold's heart clenches in a familiar, terrifying way in his chest.</p><p>Oh, dear. This could become a serious problem.</p><p>"I think I'm ready to get going now, Mr. Reese." Carefully, he starts to extricate himself from John's embrace, clutching at John's arms for support, and John's hands settle, light and strong, on Harold's hips. "I apologize for...that. I don't know what came over me." Stable enough to reach for the IV stand, finally, Harold thanks him and grabs for the cold metal pole, his hand missing the warm strength of John's body as soon as he lets go.</p><p>"Hey." John gently turns Harold toward him. "It's fine." He smiles slightly. "You're allowed." Before Harold can comment further, John changes the subject, giving him a most welcome distraction. "I'll let you pick a sweater, or jacket. Your choice. Little chilly out there."</p><p>Harold nods in acknowledgment—he has just the cardigan in mind. A step forward wipes the thought from his brain, banishes the lingering awkwardness as well, the movement reverberating from the floor to his abdomen, jarring it painfully. He groans, and a small, "Oh," slips out.</p><p>"Yeah, I know," John says, hand moving to the small of Harold's back again, the other still lightly gripping his arm. "It sucks."</p><p>"Truly." It's strange for his hip and his back not to be the origins of his trouble walking. Instead, he feels like his body is going to rip itself apart, like his skin will split along his incisions, spilling his bowels onto the floor in a messy splatter—or perhaps the damaged organs will tear apart inside him instead, and he'll bleed out internally. And he has to endure this sensation until he gets to the elevator, then again when he gets to the ground floor and heads outside. God. At least the agonizing trips to relieve himself were short. This one seems insurmountable.</p><p>"Are you certain Ms. Shaw isn't angry at me over something?"</p><p>"Sorry, Harold," John replies, sounding equally amused and sincere. "I think she likes you, actually. She keeps telling me that if you die, she's gonna shoot me."</p><p>"Oh, dear."</p><p>"She cares about you. She'll never say it, but this scared the shit out of her." John's <em>and me</em> goes unspoken, but Harold hears it and understands it anyway. "It'd be different if this happened to me. Don't think she'd be so worried if it was me, or her. This kind of thing happens to people like us. It's not supposed to happen to you."</p><p>"You're both trained to endure this." Harold takes a reluctant step forward, then another, and another. Each one hurts, and while he's started getting used to the pain, it's still terrible. "It must be horribly frustrating and dull, this...becoming a glorified babysitter for someone who isn't bouncing back as quickly as you would."</p><p>"It's not," John says, so earnest that, for the first time, Harold starts to believe him. "I just want you better. Anything I can do to get you there faster..."</p><p>"You've been a significant help," Harold says, and John freezes, just for a moment. Harold presses on. "You and Ms. Shaw were right—I don't think I could've managed any of this on my own. Thank you for volunteering."</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>With effort, John gets him clad in a cardigan, the aging sweater's tan merino wool embracing him like an old friend. When the last button slips through its hole, Harold wraps his arms around himself and runs his hands along the sleeves, eyes closed, appreciating the softness. Once his eyes shut, he's tempted to keep them that way, even though he's still standing, but his own unsteadiness brings him back to reality. When his eyes open again, he catches a glimpse of himself in the closet mirror, and finds himself looking at a sickly old man he hardly recognizes. He's so <em>pale</em>, colorless, ghostly, everywhere except the bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes.</p><p>"Oh, dear," he says. "I know I wasn't much to look at before, but good grief." His hair is oily, his skin a mess. His belly is big, swollen, a taut balloon padded with bandages, and his hand curves far more than it should when he rests it atop the swell. But the rest of him seems frail, his own weakened state staring back at him from the mirror in all its corpse-gray glory.</p><p>Compared to tall, handsome John, who is in peak physical condition... "I look like something Bear dragged in."</p><p>From the doorway, Bear lets out a small whine at the sound of his name, while John points at Harold and says, "Hey. Don't you insult my best friend like that."</p><p>Harold can't help a small laugh, and his eyes meet John's in the mirror. John's gaze is soft, <em>fond</em>, and makes Harold's stomach flip, ill-advised as that is. Alarm bells go off in Harold's head, cushioned by the glow of good humor and powerful narcotics. But the picture is starting to clarify itself, to crystallize into something coherent.</p><p>He tamps that thought down with a step toward the door, the pain cutting off his thoughts rather neatly. "Yes, I'll try to refrain from including our dear friend Bear in my self-deprecating next time," he says, the joke coming out flat, a few seconds too late.</p><p>John drops a hand on his shoulder, a small smile on his face. "Hey, no judgment from me," he says. "You remember what I looked like when we first met."</p><p>"Yes. And how you smelled. Oof." Harold makes a face, and John chuckles.</p><p>"Exactly. And I wasn't recovering from surgery, either." John lightly squeezes Harold's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go outside. Look at some sunshine instead of your suit collection. I'll help you take a shower later if you want one—a real one this time."</p><p>Harold nearly groans. A shower. It'll be tricky with his wounds, and he'll have no privacy, but... "That sounds <em>divine.</em>"</p><p>"Yeah," John says. "That first shower's always the best."</p><p>On the way out of the bedroom, John retrieves his pistol and tucks it away, then fetches the book, holding the novel with the same care as before. He looks down at it, a small smile at the corner of his lips, and strokes the cover, tracing over the words like the book is an important piece of the puzzle that is Harold, like he knows it is a cherished piece of Harold's past, and Harold's heart stumbles in his chest.</p><p>Maybe he needs to ask Ms. Shaw about these palpitations, even though they don't feel like they are a medical issue.</p><p>Before he can voice his foolish concern, John tucks the book under his arm, and turns to him with that same little smile, gentle and fond. "Now let's go get some sun."</p><p>Harold keeps an eye on John as they make their way outdoors, out of curiosity more than anything—and, alright, if he's being honest with himself, John is a pleasure to observe. But John, it seems, has an internal sensor attuned to the things that are deeply personal to Harold. His hand doesn't brush over the new sofa in the living room, but does skim over the semi-matching blue chair that has lovingly held Harold during many reading sessions. He doesn't spare a glance at most of the art prints—or the few originals—scattered on the walls, but pauses for a lingering look at an unsigned piece in the kitchen Harold painted himself, an amateurish still life of a plate of sfogliatelle pastries, a bottle of red wine, and bundles of fat purple grapes.</p><p>And the little wooden sparrow his father carved for him many, many years ago, recovered only recently from his childhood home, <em>captivates</em> John. He picks it up from its perch on the table next to the back door and cradles it in his palm, and Harold, quite foolishly, feels for a moment like John is holding his very heart in his hand. Oh, he should have put that away somewhere safe and hidden, he thinks, as John runs his thumb over tiny, uneven feathers, but he just got it back, and he likes to look at it sometimes. This is his <em>home</em>. He shouldn't have to hide his trinkets in his own damn home.</p><p>But it's <em>personal.</em> "Mr. Reese..." he says, in a warning tone, and John's smile widens.</p><p>"Just looking." John sits the sparrow down with care, exactly where it was, and Harold expects the tightness gripping his chest to let go when the bird makes contact with the table.</p><p>It doesn't. Instead, if anything, his heart seems to pound harder, louder, thrumming in his blood. He wonders if John would handle him so gently, then, when John rests a hand on the small of his back again, realizes he already knows.</p><p>Harold clears his throat. "Does my home meet your approval, Mr. Reese?" he asks, and finds himself strangely concerned with the answer, his stomach twisting.</p><p>"Too big," John says, smile not fading, "for one person."</p><p>"And a dog," Harold points out. "Bear surely causes enough chaos for at least three people." At the sound of his name, Bear nudges Harold's hand, nose wet against Harold's fingers, and Harold absently strokes his long, furry snout.</p><p>"Still..." John trails off, and looks around again, taking things in like he hasn't had plenty of opportunity to do it before. "It's a nice place. Very you. I like it."</p><p>Harold wonders if John also means <em>"I like you."</em> "Oh. Well, thank you."</p><p>They head out the door, and Harold abruptly runs out of energy. The wrought iron dining set is not where he'd like to spend any of his time, not nearly as comfortable as the sofa beneath the gazebo ahead, but it will do for a moment's rest. "Give me a minute, please," he says, sinking carefully onto the cold, black metal chair, breathing hard and holding his belly.</p><p>"Sure," John says, taking the seat next to him, the metal scraping the stone underfoot with a loud, grating sound that makes Harold wince as John angles it so Harold can see him without turning. "Sorry."</p><p>Harold waves him off, while Bear plops down between them and drops his head on Harold's lap. He and John both reach down to scratch Bear's neck at the same time, and their hands collide, sending a thrilling jolt through Harold's skin, before they both find a spot. Bear delights in the attention, leaning into Harold's scratches, his eyes closed in bliss, while Harold tries to keep breathing through the pain burning up his insides.</p><p>After a while, John asks, quietly, "You okay?"</p><p>Harold starts to nod, out of habit more than anything, but he's not. He's not okay. "I don't know," he replies, and runs his hand over his belly. His insides aren't just sore from the walking—they've started cramping again, churning and gurgling, and he feels vaguely ill. <em>"It's terrible,"</em> he wants to say, but doesn't. The sun is shining overhead, the sky is bright and clear blue, the air is crisp instead of truly cold. He should be enjoying it.</p><p>But he <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>"You need me to get the chair for when we go back?" There's no judgment in John's voice, only worry, and Harold nearly drops his guard enough to nod.</p><p>He catches himself, though, and says, "Let's wait and see how I'm doing then, alright?"</p><p>"Okay." John's hand finds his on Bear's head, and he gives Harold's fingers a squeeze. "I'm gonna go make you some tea," he says, and gets to his feet. "Any requests?"</p><p>Tea. That sounds nice. "Something with caffeine, maybe." To hopefully counter his waning energy.</p><p>John pats his shoulder and says, "You got it, Finch," and takes off, leaving Harold to his thoughts.</p><p>There aren't many of those to be had. He hurts. He breathes in the cool autumn air, and he hurts. He lifts his face to the warm sun, as much as his stiff neck allows, and he hurts. He keeps scratching Bear's head, keeps cradling his own sore abdomen, and he feels so horrendously awful that it's difficult to turn his mind elsewhere—except down paths he'd rather it not go.</p><p>New York is loud around him, as always, full of birdsong and traffic sounds, sirens and honking horns and a world he feels untethered from at the moment. The city is so very big, and he is so very small, wounded and defenseless in his carefully-constructed nest of greenery and stone amid the city's unforgiving steel and sharp glass.</p><p>But John is nearby, he reminds himself, armed and ready to protect him. So is Bear, his long and shining teeth ready to tear the flesh of the nearest threat. If Bear had been with him that day, instead of out with Shaw, Everett never would have touched him—or would, at least, not have escaped unscathed.</p><p>Oh, he really needs to find out what happened to Kyle Everett.</p><p>He's not sure he wants to know, to be honest. Everett is dead. Most likely, somebody he knows killed him. Is Kyle Everett another mark on John's conscience? On Sameen's? Did Carter fire the fatal round, or did Fusco? Or did someone drive a blade into Everett's belly just as Everett did to him? Which of them took the man's life, and how, and was it justified?</p><p>Did they manage to save Everett's wife and children? Did they resolve the issue with the man's criminal associates, or send Everett's wife and twin infants off with new identities? Harold should know this. It's his responsibility. He should have asked this already. He hasn't. This man is inextricably entwined with him now, and he hasn't even asked what happened to him.</p><p>"Should I, Bear?" he says aloud. "Should I ask?"</p><p>But Bear has no answer for him, and before Harold can dwell on it even more, he hears the door behind him open again. "For a guy who only drinks one kind of tea," John says, his footsteps quickly drawing close, "you sure do have a lot of the stuff."</p><p>Harold huffs softly, a hint of a laugh, while John sets a cup of what smells like a first flush darjeeling in front of him, fragrant and steaming, next to a mug of coffee. "Mrs. Cooper brings them when she visits," he says. "She's been trying to 'broaden my horizons' for the past few years. Whenever she leaves, I usually give one back to her." He wraps his cool fingers around the mug, while John sits down and takes over petting Bear again. "If I'm not mistaken, this one was just about to make its way back into her collection."</p><p>"So she takes care of you," John says.</p><p>"I wouldn't say that," Harold replies, carefully picking up the mug and bringing it to his chest, just to savor the warmth. It fogs up his glasses, and he inhales the hot steam, the vaguely grape-like tea scent. "Or maybe I would. We do keep an eye on each other—both of us living alone, both disabled. If she doesn't see me for a few days, she checks in, and vice versa. I'm surprised she hasn't stopped by already, actually."</p><p>"Oh, she has," John says. "You were pretty out of it. She brought cookies. Shortbread. And a tin of sencha."</p><p>That causes a pang in his chest. "I miss my tea," he blurts out, and his face goes hot. He tries to bury the feeling in a sip from his mug, but while the darjeeling tastes good, it's not <em>right.</em> His preference is for sencha, and this isn't it. But he can't bring himself to drink it again.</p><p>He lets out a bitter laugh. "It's so absurd, isn't it? It's just <em>tea</em>. A variety of <em>Camellia sinensis,</em> something people have been drinking for millennia, something I've been drinking for over a decade, and suddenly I just can't? How ridiculous!"</p><p>"I can't eat wasabi with my sushi," John says, quietly, and looks down into his own cup. "Not anymore." Harold's stomach sinks, and his heart starts to ache. "I watched Kara stick it into people's wounds so many times. It was one of her favorite tricks to...to make them scream. Have trouble with horseradish, too—you know most of the wasabi you get in the states is fake? Just green horseradish? And I can't...I can't eat it." He looks away, staring at the gazebo, and a bitter smile flickers across his face. "Never told anyone that before."</p><p>Harold finds himself reaching out, nearly without his own permission, and, after briefly withdrawing, lets himself lay a hand on John's arm. John lets out a small sigh. "Was it something you enjoyed before? I know you like spicy foods."</p><p>"Yeah," John says. "Yeah, I liked it. Working on liking it again, but...sometimes it just takes me back. The smell..." He looks at Harold again. "It's hard."</p><p>His chest aching, Harold nods, and squeezes John's arm. "Thank you for telling me."</p><p>"You're welcome." John gives him a small, sad smile. "It takes time. We can work on it. I can bring you a little bit of your tea at a time, see if you can handle drinking it again. But it's gonna be hard. A lot of things are gonna be hard."</p><p>"I figured it would be. But I just...I feel like something has been stolen from me—like several things have been stolen from me. And I want them back."</p><p>"We'll get them back," John says, and lays a hand atop Harold's, his skin warm and soothing. "You're one of the strongest people I know, Finch." Harold lets out a small, disbelieving huff of laughter. "No, I mean it. You've bounced back from a lot of things—things I don't even know about. You've got this.</p><p>"Just...let me help you, okay? Please. Let me keep helping you. Okay, Harold?"</p><p>Agreeing is difficult. Harold clenches his eyes shut, and takes a deep, slow breath. He trusts John—he does, truly. But after so many years of building walls, saying yes when he's already vulnerable, when he's already being forced to rely on the man is <em>hard.</em> The longing flaring to life in his heart makes it even harder. Is he biased by his feelings, he wonders, more inclined toward agreement simply because it's John, and his heart is starting to whisper certain things about John?</p><p>John has helped him before, however. A simple hand on his shoulder after watching Matt Duggan die in an explosion, John unaware that a bomb was how he'd been injured just a year earlier. A drink after his kidnapping by Root—and a dog, and a rescue. Companionship after the second kidnapping, gentle reminders that he was safe, that John would protect him at all costs.</p><p>Had John been present <em>that day</em>, he would have protected him from Everett. When he couldn't, he rushed to Harold's side, carried him, gave him blood, put pressure on his abdomen—and did not relent when Harold cried out in pain. John saved his life. If he can trust anyone with the mental trauma, it's the person who's been invaluable at helping him with the physical.</p><p>"Okay," Harold replies, and forces his eyes open again. "I'm not entirely sure how this works, I admit, but I...I believe I trust you with this process, Mr. Reese."</p><p>"There's not much of a process," John says. "Just...putting one foot in front of the other, letting someone catch you if you need it, I think."</p><p>Harold lets out a surprised chuckle. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not very good at the whole 'one foot in front of the other' thing right now." After a moment, he adds, "Or ever, really, anymore."</p><p>"Well that's why you've got me to catch you," John says, with a smile. Then, expression turning serious, he says, "Just...talk to me, if you need to talk. Tell me when it hurts. Tell me when you're scared. And I'll be there for you, and I won't let you down."</p><p>Harold nods, and, with another deep breath, he decides to give it a try. "I am...quite frightened, all the time," he admits. "I'm used to being anxious, to some degree, but this...I don't quite know how to handle all of this."</p><p>John takes a drink of his coffee, a pensive look on his face. "Everett's dead," he says, after a moment. "He can't hurt you again."</p><p>"I know that!" Harold snaps. "Logically, I know that. But I don't..." His eyes start to sting. "I was just making tea. That's all I was doing. I was making tea because he seemed distressed, a cup for him and a cup for me, and he attacked me. He just...he stabbed me. I was making us tea, and he stabbed me, and I don't..." He throws up a hand, then runs it over his face. "And I don't know where to go from here. I don't know what to do besides keep going."</p><p>"We could..." John pauses, looking reluctant. "We could try self-defense, when you're healed up a little better."</p><p>"John..."</p><p>"I know you don't like violence. But I think it could help." Harold starts to protest, but John keeps going. "I think it might help give you some of your power back, give you some more power. Knowing you could defend yourself, if you had to again. Not even with a gun—just you, yourself, your body." Harold opens his mouth again, and John holds up a hand. "You don't have to agree to it now—or ever. It's just...something to think about while you heal up."</p><p>As Harold tries to formulate a reply, his insides gurgle and cramp. John doesn't acknowledge the sound, but Harold does, moving both of his hands to his belly. Like being hellishly sore wasn't bad enough, he thinks, bitterly. And on top of this, he has to seriously consider John's suggestion.</p><p>"I don't know," he says, hunching over his abdomen. "I've never...I've never been inclined toward that sort of thing. I don't..."</p><p>"Like I said—you don't have to agree to anything now," John says. "You don't have to make your mind up now." Harold nods, and John looks up to the sky. "It's nice out, and it sounds like your stomach's a little upset. Why don't we head over to that nice couch over there and make this a good day, okay?"</p><p>Grateful for the change of subject, Harold straightens up again, and smooths down his sleepshirt and cardigan over his middle. "Yes, that sounds lovely," he says. "It's been a few years since I've read <em>The Hobbit</em>. I'm a little overdue."</p><p>"Then let's get to it."</p><p>John helps him out of his seat and over to the sofa, keeping him steady and standing. Along the way, the wheels of the IV pole catch on the corner of the stone outdoor fireplace just in front of the gazebo, but John quickly sets everything to rights before Harold can even think of falling. Needlessly, John asks, "You okay?" and Harold's heart flutters again.</p><p>Oh. Oh, dear. This is a problem. "No harm done," he replies, forcing a smile, and John looks relieved.</p><p>"Good. Here—watch your step."</p><p>Harold is familiar with the danger of the gazebo's small stairs—Nathan broke a toe on the edge of one while inebriated right after the thing was built, then spent the whole evening joking about lawsuits with a grin on his face and a bag of frozen peas thawing on his foot.</p><p><em>"Ice is for alcohol, Harold!"</em> he'd declared, far more cheerful than a drunk with a broken bone had any right to be, and Harold misses him so deeply and suddenly that only a few years of practice keeps him from being overcome with grief on the spot.</p><p>His own left foot—the uncooperative thing—nearly getting caught on the edge of a step distracts him, and, "This is a lot easier when I'm not on obscene quantities of morphine," slips out of his mouth.</p><p>"Most things are," John agrees.</p><p>Soon after he steps beneath the shade of the gazebo, Harold starts to shiver. He sits down on the plump green sofa with a sigh of relief, then wraps his arms around himself. "It's a bit chillier than I expected under here, Mr. Reese," he says, and gives in to the temptation to prop his legs up on the coffee table. John looks down at them, then back up at Harold, raising his eyebrows, an amused quirk to his lips. Defiant, Harold leans back against the cushions, resting his hands on his abdomen, eyes daring John to comment.</p><p>John takes the bait with a grin. "So it's okay if you do it?"</p><p>"My house, my table," Harold replies. "My rules." His insides cramp up again, harsh and painful, and he can't keep from wincing and murmuring, "Ooh."</p><p>"Apple juice not agreeing with you, huh?" John says, frowning. "Shaw said it's time to take you off the clear diet and let you have other liquids, but..."</p><p>"Maybe after things settle down a little in here," Harold says. There's always <em>something</em> to deal with, isn't there? He sighs. "I'll be alright, Mr. Reese. It causes...issues sometimes when I'm well—I always forget—and my digestive system is not exactly the most cooperative at the best of times anyway." Old age, a sedentary career, and painkillers all come with their downsides. When combined...</p><p>"For now," Harold says, "I'd quite like my tea, please. It's a little bit chillier under here than I anticipated."</p><p>"I'll go get you a blanket, too," John says, and he bends down and pats one of Harold's feet. "Don't want you to, uh, catch a cold or anything."</p><p>The twinkle in John's eyes prompts Harold to say, "Colds come from viruses, Mr. Reese, not cold air," and John grins. Harold finds himself smiling back.</p><p>"You never know," John says, and takes off to gather their things.</p><p>Soon, the two of them are bundled up under a blanket, their hot drinks nearby and the gas fireplace alight, with Bear curled up on the dog bed Harold keeps outside for him. Anticipation effervesces in Harold's stomach, tempered by fatigue and discomfort. But the excitement doesn't last. Several pages in, he learns that John's soft, raspy voice has a soporific effect. The flow of the familiar words seeps like warmth into Harold's blood, his bones, his spirit, soothing him deeply.</p><p>After he nods off a time too many, he says, slow and groggy, "Oh, dear. I think I need to lie down."</p><p>"Why do you think I smuggled this out?" John pulls out a blue throw pillow, hidden beneath the matching wool blanket, then uncovers himself and sets the pillow on his lap. "Go ahead, Finch. Make yourself comfortable."</p><p>Harold can't think of a good reason to resist, and, reminding himself to blame the morphine later, he says, "Alright," and carefully stretches out on his back, laying his head in John's lap. As soon as Harold's comfortable, with the blanket in place again and his body settled, John resumes reading.</p><p>It doesn't take long for Harold to doze off after that. While it is regretful that he misses out on the story, he sleeps peacefully, certain that he is, for once, as safe as can be.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wakes up to fingers moving through his hair and the weight of a warm, big hand resting upon his aching belly, carefully placed between his wounds. Sunlight filters in shades of mottled orange through his closed eyelids, muffled by the waving shade of blowing leaves outside the gazebo. The pressure of his glasses is missing from his face, but they're in good hands, judging by the gentle way fingers follow the curve of his head, slide softly through his hair, move so wonderfully over his scalp.</p><p>His head is in someone else's lap—John's lap, resting upon a soft pillow, with John's belly brushing the side of his head with each of John's slow, calm breaths. And for the first time in longer than he knows, Harold's mind is quiet. Oh, he knows that there are as many reasons why he should get up and move away as there are programming languages, maybe even more, but it's so much easier to keep his eyes shut and his body at rest.</p><p>As he's slept, his stomach seems to have settled down, but his wounds are starting to make their presence known again, one of the ones deep within his lower abdomen nagging especially loudly. Soon, it will be time for another dose of pain medication, another dinner of broth, and, most likely, another nap.</p><p>How exciting.</p><p>It borders on peaceful for him, but it all must be terribly boring for someone as prone to restlessness as John. Yet somehow, John hasn't complained. Why? Harold is good at weathering slow periods, at handling silence, but John...John is rather like an action hero. John requires the stimulation of saving lives, or so Harold thought. They've shared and enjoyed quiet moments before, but not for so long.</p><p>And yet John doesn't seem the tiniest bit restless—not now, not at other times. He's been nothing but kind and compassionate, meeting Harold's needs without complaint, even when they're dull or unpleasant. Such a good man. Harold is lucky to have him.</p><p>In the haze of post-sleep, the thought that he has refused to allow himself to think slips through his mental firewall: He is in love with John.</p><p>Well, then. It's not news—he's been refusing to allow himself to think of this for a while—but it <em>is</em> a problem.</p><p>He's been down this road before. All those days and nights spent lost in his feelings for Nathan, holding the secret close, tucking it away in his chest, warm and golden and silently cherished. The sardonic way Nathan said his name fueled the fluttering of so many butterflies in his belly. The electric touch of Nathan's skin sent so many sparks through his nerves it was a wonder he didn't have a heart attack before he hit twenty.</p><p>Then Nathan met Olivia, married her, had a child with her, and Harold locked those feelings away, tried to crush them but couldn't. For years, he burned, he <em>pined</em>, longing for all he couldn't have, trying and failing to bury the way he felt in code and business and flings. It went away eventually, died down to an ember, and he was free to love Grace wholeheartedly.</p><p>Most likely, there won't be enough time for this one to die down.</p><p>He's known for a while that, if he wasn't careful, he might start to develop feelings for John as well. John is an incredible man, a dear friend, gentle and funny and kind, with a subtle brilliance many overlook. He tried so hard not to become John's friend, then had to declare that particular mission an utter failure. That wasn't so terrible. But falling in love with him? He should probably do something to stop it before it ends in pain for the both of them.</p><p><em>"Like this will end any other way,"</em> he thinks, mentally rolling his eyes at himself. No matter the type of relationship they have, theirs will only end one way—with pain. Either John will die, or he will die, or they will both go out at once. They are not the type of duo that will grow old together. One will inevitably sacrifice himself for the other, or one's past will inevitably catch up to him, and their story together will end.</p><p>But what about the interim, he wonders. What sort of life could they lead between numbers and death? A peaceful one, like these weeks he's spent recovering, but with more activities. Already, when he is well, they share meals together, go to movies and plays together, enjoy the companionship of their dog together. They could continue as they were, but more closely, more intimately, spending even more time in close contact with each other. They could eat together in the breakfast nook downstairs, could hold each other close and watch the sun set over the city in Partridge's penthouse, could share jokes as he tends to tedious paperwork and John plays with Bear.</p><p>They could kiss. He always has enjoyed kissing, has often been told he's quite gifted at it. Is John a good kisser? What a privilege it would be to find out, to press his lips to John's, to kiss John everywhere, to have John kiss him everywhere. </p><p>They could have sex. It feels impolite, improper to think about it, but he believes he would enjoy having sex with John. John is a beautiful man, a true pleasure to look at, but more interesting to Harold is the kind of man John is, and how that would translate to the bedroom. He has his suspicions—though he refuses to think of them in detail at the moment—and is curious to see if he is correct. Would it be tender? Would it be delightfully rough? Would it be a new adventure every time?</p><p>Oh, there is so much more to their imaginary future than sex. Living together in his various homes, vacations spent stargazing, nights spent enjoying each other's company and affection, the gentle comforts and occasional irritations of a romance—all of it stretches out in Harold's mind, forming a picture of imperfectly perfect happiness. They are two strong, mature adults, with a partnership already forged in steel. They could have a wonderful relationship, built on trust and care, one that lasts.</p><p>Maybe he could even share the rest of his secrets with John, one day.</p><p>It would be nice to grow old with John, up close instead of from afar like he would with Grace—oh, Grace. What on earth does he do about her? Is he even allowed to love again with her still out there grieving over him? How on earth is this fair to her?</p><p>Many of the things he's done have been greatly unfair to her. Loving someone else—he doesn't even know where that ranks. But she believes him to be dead, and will likely continue to believe he is dead for the rest of her life. Their relationship is done. Any lingering feelings on either of their parts are...irrelevant.</p><p>Oh, this is too complicated for him to consider with so much morphine in his system. He will have to revisit the matter later.</p><p>As he lies there, thinking, he catches John stretching his neck. His heart clenches. Tending to his needs is taking quite a toll on John, isn't it? Before he's ready to confirm he's awake, he finds himself asking, "Are you alright?" as he watches John tilt his head back and forth.</p><p>"Just stretching a little," John replies, face almost imperceptibly pinched and pained. "I'm fine."</p><p>"Are you?" Harold doesn't bother to hide his lack of conviction. "Are you still sleeping in that chair, or..."</p><p>Caught, John's grin turns sheepish. He shrugs, and Harold heaves a sigh. "There is a very large bed right next to that chair that you are more than welcome to use, Mr. Reese. I acknowledge that that prospect of sharing a bed with someone might be a bit—" <em>intimate</em>, Harold thinks, but instead says, "—unappealing, but surely it's preferable to sleeping in a chair while I recover."</p><p>"It's fine," John insists. "I've slept in worse places. I'll be fine."</p><p>"No, it's not fine. Not to me. I don't want you enduring anymore discomfort than you have to on my behalf. Please. Take the bed." John opens his mouth, looking ready to protest, and Harold adds, "It would make me rest easier if you did, John. Take the bed. There's room. And I've never had anyone complain of me stealing the blankets or kicking them in my sleep before."</p><p>John lets out a quiet laugh, but before he can speak, his phone rings. His face falls with annoyance, and, saying, "Maybe it won't be anything important," he pulls out his phone.</p><p>It's Shaw, speaking loudly enough that Harold clearly hears her say, <em>"Is Finch with you?"</em> and, when John confirms, <em>"Put this on speaker."</em></p><p>"You're the one who said no numbers for Harold," John says, even as he does as he's told.</p><p><em>"Yeah, well, that was before we got the numbers of all of HR</em> and <em>the Russian mafia at once."</em></p><p>Harold's stomach drops. If he were capable, he'd sit up abruptly. Instead, voice lowered, he tells John, "Help me up, Mr. Reese, please," and, as John does, says to Shaw, words strained by the pain, "I'm sorry, did you just say—"</p><p><em>"Thirty-eight numbers all at once,"</em> Shaw says. <em>"Carter just started a war between the Russians and HR."</em></p><p>John freezes, and Harold's mouth falls open. "Carter?" John asks. "As in—"</p><p><em>"Our Carter,"</em> Shaw replies. Then, with glee, she adds, <em>"God, you should see it—she went at those guys with a grenade launcher."</em> Good lord, she sounds like she's salivating, and far too excited for someone who isn't complicit. <em>"I should send you the video."</em></p><p>Harold winces, the pressure of a tension headache trying to creep in and compete with his wounds. Clenching his eyes shut, he rubs at the bridge of his nose, and asks, very slowly, "Ms. Shaw, where exactly did Detective Carter come across a grenade launcher?"</p><p><em>"Reese wasn't using it,"</em> she replies, without missing a beat, and Harold throws up his hands with dismay. Good grief.</p><p>"Wait...you let her borrow <em>my</em> grenade launcher?" John says. "Without asking me?"</p><p><em>"You weren't using it,"</em> Shaw reiterates.</p><p>"That's not the point!"</p><p>Before they can start bickering in earnest, Harold cuts in with, "I think the larger issue here is the fact that Detective Carter has triggered a war between two of the city's largest criminal organizations, not Ms. Shaw's theft. Apart from the weaponry, has she asked for our assistance?"</p><p><em>"Nah,"</em> Shaw says. <em>"Says she doesn't want our help. She's tough. She's got this."</em></p><p>"I don't doubt that. That's not what I'm asking."</p><p>"She picked a hell of a time to start a war," John says, "with Finch out of commission."</p><p>"Indeed," Harold says, though he suspects his own physical state has little bearing on Carter's actions. "I do wonder what triggered this decision."</p><p><em>"Her new rookie got killed the other day,"</em> Shaw says—which is news to Harold. <em>"Shootout with our buddy Terney. They killed each other."</em></p><p>"Hm," Harold says. Is that all there was to it, or is there something he's missing—or even something they're all missing?</p><p>"Revenge, maybe?" John says.</p><p>"Perhaps." But that doesn't seem quite right. The Joss Carter he knows wouldn't start a war without considering it thoroughly, or without having a clear endgame in mind. Wait, no. No, this <em>is</em> the endgame. This is meant to be the end to her war with HR. "Or perhaps there's more to it than that."</p><p>So much for his quiet, careful recovery. "What do we do now?" he says, more thinking out loud than asking. "If Detective Carter doesn't want our help..."</p><p><em>"We stay out of her way?"</em> Shaw says, like it's obvious. Harold can practically hear her rolling her eyes.</p><p>"She's our friend," John says, and Harold can feel John tensing up against his side. "We can't just do nothing."</p><p><em>"And you can't just bail on Finch,"</em> Shaw says, and John sags. <em>"Sorry, Harold, but I know what kind of shape you're in."</em></p><p>Harold nods, though Shaw can't see it, and carefully rubs at his belly. A tumbling knot of queasiness has joined the soreness, and his abdomen feels somehow tighter than before. "I understand, Ms. Shaw. No offense taken." There is no denying that he is significantly incapacitated—either to Shaw or to himself. The pain is significant. The weakness. And, while it makes him feel ill to say, "I'm aware that I need near-constant care at this time," it is the most rational, practical response.</p><p>John puffs out his cheeks and blows out a loud breath, and runs a hand over his face. "So what do we do? Nothing?"</p><p>"No." Their course of action pops into Harold's head, finally. "We monitor the situation closely, make sure Detective Carter stays safe, and wait for her to either reach out to us or conclude her mission to bring down HR." Just the thought of returning to work, even from a distance, makes him feel exhausted. "This is not something we can entrust someone as unreliable as Mr. Tao with, either, unless we need more direct action from a hacker. I'm going to need you to fetch me a laptop, Mr. Reese. I'm afraid I must get back to work."</p>
<hr/><p>Not wanting to waste his finite, much-needed energy, Harold has John transport him back to his bed in the wheelchair, finishing off his cold tea along the way. A wooden lap desk and his laptop are the next orders of business, along with more tea, and John fetches each of them quickly. Soon, he is covered in a comfortable blanket, with a small wooden table sitting over his lap and another mug of tea—toasty, nutty hojicha this time—close at hand.</p><p>But as he reaches for the laptop, he hesitates, his fingers skimming the edge of the lid. Is he ready for this, he wonders. And—oh. It's the same laptop he was using at the safehouse when he was wounded, he realizes abruptly, his heart fumbling to a stop in his chest. What will he find when he looks at the screen?</p><p>The answer, when he finds the courage to open the lid, is like another knife to the intestines.</p><p>"Oh, god," he murmurs, his blood draining from his veins in an icy fall, his hands absently going to his stomach.</p><p>He was researching Everett. There had been something about the man that hadn't added up, something that nagged at him, something that tugged at his brain and had him digging deeper, even though they thought Everett was the victim. His instincts saw something he hadn't—that Everett was a danger, a threat, someone who couldn't be trusted.</p><p>If only he'd realized before Everett pulled out the knife.</p><p>His programs are still open, the information he'd gathered still on display. And there, in one of the windows, is Everett's driver's license picture, Everett's green eyes staring out at him from a poorly-photographed face. Eyes that glared at him with hatred as he said, <em>"Please stop. I think you've already killed me. Please, this is unnecessary."</em> A blandly-smiling face that contorts to remembered anger as Harold stares at it.</p><p><em>"You're right,"</em> Everett said, pulling the knife from Harold's body with a wet, sickening sound. <em>"And now I know where to find them. Good luck stopping me."</em></p><p>And Harold can't <em>breathe.</em></p><p>Before he can go fully into a panic, John takes the laptop from him and turns it around, with a gentle, "Hang on a second." Harold watches, helpless, air caught in his chest and heart pounding in his ears, as John taps the touchpad over and over again, then looks at him with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I didn't think..."</p><p>"Neither..." Harold's voice comes out as a croak. He clears his throat and swallows hard, rasping a shaky, "Neither did I, Mr. Reese."</p><p>When John turns the computer back around, the screen is blank, only his icons, taskbar, and wallpaper on display. Harold knows what his next step should be, can see himself taking it—reaching for the touchpad, opening the console, starting to dig. It's something he's done so many times. But his hands stay frozen on his belly, numb and protective, and he stares at the computer with his heart lodged in his throat.</p><p><em>"Breathe,"</em> he tells himself, though the voice in his head sounds like—no, it <em>is</em> John, gently telling him to take a breath.</p><p>Harold forces himself to take a breath, then another. He has practice at breathing through pain—this is the exact same thing. Breathing through pain. One breath, another, another. Sometimes that's all you can do.</p><p>No. No, that's not all he can do—not when fighting back is also an option. Kyle Everett is <em>not</em> going to take anything else from him. Especially not his computers.</p><p>Once his finger lands on the touchpad, everything is automatic. Open console. Type commands. Try and fail to track Carter, whose phone has either been turned off or abandoned—or destroyed. Make contact with Shaw and have her investigate, then get to work digging into the numbers.</p><p>"You don't have to keep that place, you know," John says, interrupting his workflow. "You could sell—"</p><p>"No, I can't," Harold snaps. He cannot sell the safehouse. It belonged to Nathan. He <em>can't.</em> "Please don't interrupt me again unless you have something to say about helping Carter, thank you." Immediately, he regrets his snappy tone, and heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry, John. It was a reasonable suggestion."</p><p>"It's okay," John says, joining him on the bed and settling a hand on his back.</p><p>"No," Harold says, firmly. "No, it's not. My present condition is no excuse for me to be rude to you. I do have my reasons for keeping that place. I should have expressed that better. I'm sorry."</p><p>John pats Harold's back, and, with a smile in his voice, says, "Apology accepted."</p><p>The two of them discuss the case as Harold gets to work searching. There's a reason they are partners, Harold thinks, as John's input sends his mind in new directions. And while their options for assisting Carter directly are limited, they <em>can</em> protect her a bit.</p><p>With a few keystrokes and clicks, some of the threats to her are eliminated. Legal red tape gets cut, law enforcement investigations speed up, arrests are made. The FBI stays busy.</p><p>He's starting to run out of energy and wondering if he can get away with a nap when Carter calls.</p><p><em>"I need something from you, Finch,"</em> she says, once they've exchanged brief greetings. <em>"If you're up for it. Couple of things, actually."</em></p><p>"What are you up to, Joss?" John asks, before Harold can respond.</p><p><em>"I know who the head of HR is,"</em> she replies, and Harold straightens up, biting back a hiss of pain. <em>"Gonna try to take him down. Need Finch to help me find a judge who looks clean on the surface, but is slimy as a snake underneath, and I'm gonna need his recording skills."</em></p><p>Harold opens his mouth to speak, but, again, John gets to it first, "And this couldn't wait a little more? Harold just had surgery."</p><p>"Let me make the decision for myself, please, Mr. Reese," Harold says, sharply. To Carter, more affably, he says, "I should be able to handle both of those things, Detective," and he hears her exhale, relieved. "What's your plan?"</p><p><em>"Shaw and I are gonna set us a nice trap,"</em> she replies. <em>"And Quinn's gonna walk right into it."</em></p><p>Quinn. Harold and John exchange a look, John as shocked as him. "Alonzo Quinn," Harold says, softly. "Oh, of <em>course</em>. That makes so much sense." He wasn't even on their list of candidates for HR's leader, though Harold had been thinking about adding him. "He has the connections, people don't pay attention to him—"</p><p>"Simmons is always popping up around him," John says.</p><p><em>"Yeah, and Terney confirmed it,"</em> Carter says, <em>"right before he died. And I'm taking him down—with or without your help. Be much easier with it, though."</em></p><p>Her plan is simple but solid: Find a clean-looking judge to ask to bring up charges against Quinn. HR will likely go after her then, and, with Harold tapping phones close to hers, she should be able to record what happens even after they inevitably take hers. They'll probably try to kill her and cover it up, but, wherever they are, Shaw will be nearby, waiting to step in. Then, they'll turn Quinn and the evidence over to the FBI together.</p><p>"Hell of a plan," John says, and Harold can hear the barely-concealed worry in his voice. He wonders what John is thinking, if John is wishing it were him going instead of Shaw. Carter is very dear to him. At times, Harold has wondered if John is in love with her—and takes bitter, jealous comfort in the thought that she is far too sensible to involve herself with someone like John.</p><p>If they weren't on speakerphone, Harold might say something reassuring. Instead, he reaches over and lays a hand on John's forearm.</p><p><em>"I know,"</em> Carter says. <em>"Shaw says she's got a couple more ideas to help make it work, but..."</em> She heaves a sigh. <em>"Best I got."</em></p><p>"Well, I'll do my best to provide assistance," Harold says. "When do you intend to execute this plan?"</p><p><em>"Soon as possible,"</em> she replies. <em>"We can't let these guys keep going. I know you're not doing too well right now, and I'm sorry, but—"</em></p><p>"No, I understand," Harold says. "And I agree. The longer it takes for Alonzo Quinn to be brought to justice, the more people will be hurt or die. Personally, I'm willing to sacrifice a significant amount of personal comfort to prevent that."</p><p>Carter goes quiet for a moment. <em>"I'm sorry, Harold,"</em> she says, eventually, her tone turning sympathetic. <em>"Man, I hate doing this to you right now. God, after what happened—how are you holding up?"</em></p><p>Oh, that's a complicated question. "I'm hanging in there, Joss, thank you," he says. "And I will feel much better once there is one less criminal mastermind out on the streets."</p><p><em>"Joss, huh?"</em> she says, warm and teasing, and Harold smiles.</p><p>"I felt it was warranted," he says. "I have to go now. I need to start digging, and I'm afraid I don't have nearly as much strength as I usually do to do such things at the moment." It's frightening to admit, but necessary—and they all know that he nearly died.</p><p><em>"No problem,"</em> Carter says. <em>"Take care of yourself—both of you."</em></p><p>"And you, Detective," Harold tells her.</p><p>They wrap up the call, and Harold and John sit in silence for a while, thinking—or perhaps <em>trying to think</em> would be more accurate, in Harold's case. Just the one conversation sapped what little energy he had left, and his eyelids feel too heavy to stay open. The pain in his stomach makes it slightly easier to stay awake, but not by much. He's far too used to sleeping through terrible pain.</p><p>But it <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>"I think I know who might be able to find us a judge," John says, while Harold's brain continues to fail him. "Who knows who's corrupt better than—"</p><p>"Ms. Morgan," Harold finishes, the realization finally dawning on him. More competition for him, romantically, but a useful ally and a good friend. He should've thought of her the instant Carter hung up the phone. Instead, his brain seems to be working at, at best, a quarter of its usual capacity. "She'd know," he adds, and can hear the fatigue in his own voice.</p><p>So, apparently, can John. "Why don't you get some more rest?" He reaches for the laptop tray but doesn't take it, as though waiting for Harold's permission. "I'll call Zoe, see if she can dig—"</p><p>"No, I just took a nap."</p><p>"—up some more...Harold, that was hours ago."</p><p>"Yes, and there's a lot of work to be done. I can't let a bit of a bellyache get in my way."</p><p>"You were stabbed," John says. "You almost died."</p><p>"And that's different from all of your near death experiences how?"</p><p>"It is. You're special. I'm a weapon. You're a necessity." Before Harold can protest, John continues, saying, "I've seen people hurt less than you <em>die</em>, Harold. I've killed some of them with milder wounds than this. And I can't...You're important. To m—to everyone. You're important."</p><p>"So is Carter," Harold says. "She's a mother. She's a good woman. And, what is it that you said about her once—that she's someone the world can't afford to lose?"</p><p>"It can't afford to lose you, either," John says, soft and quiet, stricken. "And she's not the one with a gut full of stitches.</p><p>"No one's judging you," he continues, gently. "We're all just glad you're still here. Carter, Fusco, Zoe—even Leon—they all showed up while you were in surgery, both times. Not sure how they knew to be there, but they came. They all worried about you. They're all still worried about you. Do you think Carter would be happy if you fucked something up in your gut while you were trying to help her?"</p><p>"No, I know," Harold says, though the vigil during his surgery is news to him. "I know you all are concerned. I just..." He lets out a frustrated noise, and runs a hand over his face. "It's all so difficult. There's something I can do to help—something that I <em>know</em> I can do, something that I do all the time. And I just..."</p><p>"You're worried."</p><p>"She's our friend. We owe her a great deal. And I don't appreciate being bound to my bed while she's putting her life on the line."</p><p>"She wouldn't want you hurting yourself," John says. "Does that sound like the Carter we know? She'd want you to do what you can, and rest when you need it—and you need it." John does move the table then, computer and all, setting it next to him on the big, big bed. "Take a nap. I'll call Zoe and see what we can come up with. You can be your usual self the next time we take down a big group of bad guys."</p><p>Harold sighs heavily. "I hate this."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"I should be—I should be at the Library, <em>helping</em> Carter properly, not lying around in my bed." He takes off his glasses, and rubs at the tension building around bridge of his nose. "But that's not how things worked out, is it?"</p><p>"No, it's not." John's hand lands on his shoulder. "I'm sorry." He squeezes lightly. "Take a nap, Harold. You've earned it. I'll take care of the rest."</p><p>With another sigh, Harold reluctantly lets John help him down onto his back. He's not expecting to fall asleep, despite his fatigue—not with his mind still spinning like a hard drive. But John's voice on the phone is like a dose of sleeping pills, knocking him out again.</p><p>He wakes to the phone ringing—Zoe, apparently. The room is dark around him, his bladder and abdomen are aching, and he feels almost feverish and sick to his stomach. Those can wait. He nudges John as John goes to answer, and John puts the phone on speaker.</p><p>"I've found you guys a judge," Zoe says, in lieu of a greeting.</p><p>"Excellent news, Ms. Morgan." Harold goes to rub his eyes, and finds his glasses gone again. No matter—they're in good hands.</p><p>"Harold," Zoe says, startled, but pleased. He can tell she's smiling when she speaks again. "Good to hear your voice. Thought I might not get to hear it again."</p><p>"Oh, it's harder to keep me down than people think." Using John's arm for support, Harold starts pulling himself upright, biting back a groan, and John helps him up. His voice is still strained when he says, "And I commend your progress."</p><p>"Anything to help a friend," she says.</p><p>They discuss the specifics, the strategy, John and Zoe more vocal than Harold. The name of their mark drops out of Harold's head almost as soon as it's spoken—how frustrating. What he wouldn't give to be functioning at full capacity for this.</p><p>Andrew Monahan. That's the man's name.</p><p>"Looks squeaky clean as can be," Zoe says, "but rotten to the core. I've had my eye on him for a while, just in case, but he's perfect for this. Average person like Joss would think he's clean, unless she'd been digging for months."</p><p>"And you've been digging for months," John says.</p><p>"Years," Zoe corrects. Then, she points out, "You know Monahan's probably not gonna make it out of this alive, right?" and Harold's stomach sinks. "They're not gonna risk him testifying to save his own ass."</p><p>"Probably not gonna be able to avoid bloodshed," John says. "But we have to take these guys down."</p><p>"I'm still shocked that it's Alonzo Quinn," Zoe says. "It makes no sense, and it makes perfect sense. But taking out his own godson?"</p><p>"Mr. Quinn is not a good man," Harold says, "nor are the vast majority of the people working under him in his organization." Though he does wonder, with a pang, how many others could have been saved like Detective Fusco.</p><p>"No, they're not," Zoe says. "And I wish you boys and Joss luck." She chuckles softly. "You really <em>do</em> love a challenge, don't you?"</p><p>"This is just a regular night for us," John says, with a grin, though it's anything but.</p><p>"Let me know how it goes," she says. "Oh, and Harold?"</p><p>"Yes, Ms. Morgan?"</p><p>Without her usual wry amusement, she says, "I really am glad to hear you're okay. You gave all of us a pretty big scare." Harold bites his lip, and she goes on. "The world needs more people in it like you. Take care of yourself, alright?" Then, back to her typical teasing, she adds, "Or let John take care of you," voice infused with innuendo.</p><p>Harold's eyebrows shoot up, and, beside him, John tenses. "Ms. Morgan, while I appreciate the sentiment, what on earth are you implying?"</p><p>She laughs softly. "You know <em>exactly</em> what I'm implying, Harold," and Harold's face heats up. Oh, goodness, is it that obvious?</p><p>Somehow keeping his voice even, Harold says, "I can assure you, I don't," and Zoe laughs, "but I do appreciate your well-wishes nonetheless."</p><p>"And John always says you're a genius." Zoe chuckles. "Be good, you two," she says, then quickly adds, "But not <em>too</em> good," before ending the call.</p><p>Harold's digestive system saves him from further contemplation. It's still not easy to say, "I need to use the restroom, Mr. Reese," but unpleasant bodily fluids are easier to handle than Zoe Morgan's perceptive mind, with nastier consequences if ignored. "And I'll need my medication soon."</p><p>He's still not strong enough to urinate on his own, but while he takes care of his body's other unpleasant demands, John steps out and calls Carter. Once those undignified difficulties are resolved, it's time to deal with the matter of medication. He needs his wits about him as much as possible tonight. That means dealing with pain.</p><p>"I suspect this is going to be quite unpleasant for the both of us," Harold says, and John turns to him with a curious expression, "but I need you to decrease the dosage of my narcotics until this situation is resolved."</p><p>John's eyes widen. "Are you out of your mind?"</p><p>"No, that's the whole point!" He knows John doesn't like him to be in pain, but for this... "I need my mind to be sharp. Which, regrettably, means tolerating more than a little bit of discomfort until Detective Carter has delivered Mr. Quinn to the FBI."</p><p>"Harold, you don't have to suffer—"</p><p>Harold cuts him off with an emphatic, "It's not about suffering. There is a certain degree of pain that I'm willing to deal with from my other injuries, but not this."</p><p>His other injuries, his chronic pain—those are the price he must pay, his penance. This pain was unearned, undeserved. He was trying to be kind to Kyle Everett and was rewarded with a knife in his belly.</p><p>That, however, is not the issue at hand. "But morphine dulls my mind, my senses." Reaching the bed again is a relief, and he sinks down upon it gratefully. "Believe me, I am not looking forward to this, but I'd rather not make a mistake because my mind was addled by painkillers—surely you understand that better than most."</p><p>John clenches his jaw, then turns his back on Harold, fetching the necessary drugs in an obvious snit. Oh, for heaven's sake. John has always turned down all but the weakest pain medications whenever injured. Even when he was nearly killed by the CIA, he wanted only the barest minimum of narcotics to take the edge off the pain. Harold is doing the exact same thing.</p><p>It's not his first time, either. After the bombing...</p><p>No, he'd rather not think of that. Not when it's still so easy to see himself building an explosive of his own, or hear Alicia Corwin's pleas.</p><p>He's been down a road like this before, albeit under significantly different circumstances.</p><p>Gentling his tone, Harold says, "John, I am no stranger to pain. I know how to tolerate it."</p><p>"In your back." John straightens up, holding the bottle of morphine and a syringe. "Your neck. Your hip. Not your gut."</p><p>Harold scoffs "I've been tolerating this sort of pain ever since Mr. Everett stuck his knife in my belly seven times." John flinches, very slightly. "Please. Just enough to dull the pain, not my mind. If something were to happen because I couldn't think..."</p><p>John breathes out softly, then nods. "Okay. Half your usual dose."</p><p>His dose is quite high, though. "John..."</p><p>"I'm not going any lower than half, Finch," he says, and starts filling the syringe. "I'd rather do three-fourths, but I knew you'd say no. Pain fucks with your head, too. This'll take a little more than just the edge off."</p><p>Maybe it'll be enough of a decrease. But he's not certain. "A quarter would—"</p><p>"No," John says, firmly, but his eyes say more than his voice. Such beautiful eyes, full of anguish, and the memory of John putting agonizing pressure on his wounds and apologizing profusely as Harold cried out flashes through Harold's mind. Never has he wanted to cause Harold pain—not since that moment he slammed Harold to the wall when Harold was nothing more to him than an arrogant stranger.</p><p>Harold can't stand to hurt John, either—and his suffering <em>will</em> hurt John. So he relents.</p><p>"Half the usual dose," Harold says, "and I'll remain open to the idea of increasing it slightly should the need arise. Will that be acceptable?"</p><p>"Yeah," John says, but it sounds more like a no</p><p>John returns Harold's glasses, handling them with care, and as Harold marvels at the lack of smudges on the lenses—John must've cleaned them, too—John shows him the syringe, then the morphine bottle. "Half a dose," John says, and Harold's heart swells.</p><p>Harold knows his narcotics well. It's half a dose. No trickery. No attempt to pass off a higher concentration as something lower, or a stronger narcotic as morphine. Some would do that. He can imagine Shaw doing such a thing, or—and he's aware that it's an uncharitable thought—Nathan, thinking he was doing Harold a favor. Not John.</p><p>He looks John in the eyes, and says, "Thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome," John says, and gives Harold the medication.</p><p>As expected, it does little good. The pain burns in Harold's belly, in the stitched up wounds in his skin and the healing cuts inside him. He breathes through it, the movement of his breathing sending a wave of discomfort radiating from his midsection. Perhaps, he thinks, he has made a mistake.</p><p>Then, Carter calls again. "I'm on the way to Judge Monahan's house. You boys ready for this?"</p><p>"Shaw's with you?" John asks, and Harold can hear the worry in his voice.</p><p>"Right beside me," Carter says. "You sure you got this, Finch? My phone's enough?"</p><p>"Your phone's enough," Harold confirms, while John gives back his computer, setting it up over Harold's lap. "As long as I have access to your phone, I can hack into the phones in the immediate vicinity."</p><p>Carter is silent for a moment. "Okay, that's creepy as hell," she says, and Harold laughs. It hurts. "You know that, right?"</p><p>"I do, Detective," he replies, smiling. "It's something of an honor, actually."</p><p>This time, Carter laughs. "Never change, Harold. And, man, I hate to ask this, but you sure you can't spare John for the night?"</p><p>"'Fraid not," John says, "sorry."</p><p>"I'm quite sure," Harold says, "regrettably."</p><p>"Aw, that's too bad," Carter says. "You take care of yourself, alright, Harold? And John, you take good care of him." She pauses. "Now, let's take down HR."</p><p>It goes surprisingly well. As expected, Carter's phone is confiscated, but that doesn't deter Harold one bit. The thing he's found about much of the rest of the older generations—even their most paranoid members like Quinn and Simmons—is that the security of their phones is almost universally appalling, as though they think burner phones are protection enough. They're wrong. Even with his stomach screaming muffled obscenities at him, Harold hacks in with no effort, and records every single word.</p><p>Shaw is as efficient and as terrifying as ever, even through the phones. No one gets a single glimpse of her until she pops up in Carter's back seat like a demon, startling even Carter.</p><p>Their situation seems to be under control, so Harold switches to monitoring Simmons' burner, and learns that police communication is down—both radios and, save for Simmons' and Quinn's, phones. "Oh, that's odd," he says. "Ms. Shaw wouldn't have known how..."</p><p>But there is something else that would. And its chosen human avatar. He hurries to check the camera feed at the Library, murmuring, "Please tell me she didn't—" until the words die in his throat. "Oh, no."</p><p>"What is it?" John says, instantly on alert. "What's wrong?"</p><p>"Ms. Groves' cell," Harold says, and angles the laptop for John to get a better look. "Her <em>empty</em> cell. How on earth did she escape?" She couldn't have found a way to communicate with The Machine from there somehow, could she? Did she have help?</p><p>"Sorry, Harry," Root says, breaking into his tap on Quinn's phone, and Harold freezes, hair standing on end, heart going cold and still with bloodless terror. "But with you and your little nurse out of the picture, Shaw needed an extra pair of hands."</p><p>"Shaw let you out?" John asks, voice low and dangerous.</p><p>Root giggles, and Harold feels like throwing up. "Of course not," she replies, then the sound of gunshots bursts through the line, followed by men's pained yells. "Do you really think She couldn't help me find my way out?" Harold's stomach drops further. So they <em>did</em> find a way to communicate—but how? "Don't worry. Everything's gonna be—"</p><p>The line goes dead. Quinn's phone's been destroyed. Harold sits back, numb, unable to breathe.</p><p>A hand on his back breaks him from his frozen stupor. "I won't let her get to you," John says. "I promise."</p><p>Harold tries to say, <em>"You might not get a chance to stop her,"</em> but the words stick to the roof of his mouth. "She's working at the behest of The Machine," he does get out. "Who knows what the both of them are planning?" He'd like to think he taught The Machine better, but he's not certain. And to pile Root's involvement on top of everything else... "Oh, I don't know if I can handle this right now." Not with a friend in danger, and his stomach hurting, and his future with the man beside him so uncertain.</p><p>"I won't let her get to you," John repeats, emphatic. "If she comes after you again, I will make sure it's the last time. Understand."</p><p>"No, you don't understand." He turns to John, ignoring the horrific protests of his muscles. "The Machine is capable of far more than you and I can ever imagine. If it decides to target me out of retaliation for all that I have done to it? There will be nothing you can do to stop it."</p><p>John doesn't respond immediately. When he does, he says, "I've talked to your Machine, Harold. When Root kidnapped you that first time, it helped lead me to you. Why would it do that—"</p><p>"It's not a human, John! It's a <em>machine.</em> It's an artificial superintelligence whose thoughts and capabilities are beyond our comprehension. There's a reason I limited it—<em>many</em> reasons why I limited it."</p><p>"You also helped set it free," John points out, and Harold inhales sharply, painfully. "I don't think it's going to try to kill you, Harold, or to help Root do it. If nothing else, it cares about the numbers too much. But if it tries? Then I will go down fighting to keep you alive."</p><p>"John, I—"</p><p>"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you." John's eyes are wide, impassioned, his gaze boring into him so deep it makes Harold shiver and his heart pound. "A world without you in it—I don't want to know what that's like. I will fight Root, your Machine, <em>anyone</em> who tries to take you out of it. And I will either save you or die trying. Understand?"</p><p>Before Harold can reply, the phone rings. John answers, and, after a moment, puts it on speaker. Shaw has acquired another phone, it seems, and is spitting mad. "I swear to god, Finch, if Carter wasn't here, I would've shot this asshole by now."</p><p>"Finch, huh?" Quinn says, voice muffled by distance. "Is that the Man in the Suit? You do know I'm going to be remembering everything you say, right?"</p><p>Harold rolls his eyes, while Shaw snaps, "Touch this phone, and I break all your fingers—slowly," presumably to Quinn. To Harold, she says, "What's the situation with the cops?"</p><p>"Most of their comms are down," John replies, "last we heard."</p><p>"Courtesy of Ms. Groves, of all people." Harold starts to lean toward his laptop, sending a shockwave of sharp pain across his belly. Gasping, he stops and clutches his middle, his eyes watering.</p><p>"You okay, Harold?" John asks, ignoring Shaw cursing about Root.</p><p>Harold waves off his question. "We need to touch base with Detective Fusco to see if he knows anything," he says, voice strained, and tries again, blinking back the involuntary tears. Dear god, he <em>hurts</em>. Perhaps he has made a mistake. But he gets to work anyway, breathing hard through the pain as he tracks Shaw to a subway train, their police cruiser presumably abandoned. They're still a long way from the FBI building, but if the police are incapacitated...</p><p>"And I need to find out how Ms. Groves pulled this off," he adds, "and figure out what exactly she's up to."</p><p>"Uh, if she's helping us, who cares?" Shaw says, irritated, and something in her tone makes Harold uneasy. Her relationship with Root has always been complicated, and with him and John sidelined, the two of them have had a lot of time to get to know each other better. "It's a few of us against most of the NYPD—I'm taking any advantage I can get, and I don't care who it comes from."</p><p>Harold sighs. She's right. "Yes, dealing with her can wait for another time. I'm going to call Detective Fusco and get an update from him, and we'll go from there, alright, Ms. Shaw?"</p><p>As soon as he hangs up, John asks, "Do you need the rest of that dose yet?"</p><p>"No," he replies, without hesitation. He reaches for the phone, and his hand is trembling far more than usual—too much to dial. He absently wipes the sweat from his brow, and murmurs, "Oh, dear," then tries again. No, he's too unsteady for a touchscreen. "You're going to have to do this, I'm afraid."</p><p>"I've got it."</p><p>While John gets in touch with Fusco, Harold breathes through the pain, bracing himself for more work. He's not sure if he can pull this off after all. Dear god, you don't think of every activity the abdomen is connected to until it's been injured, do you, he thinks, holding himself stiff and still.</p><p>Perhaps listening would be a better distraction after all. He tries it, learning HR is quite furious with Root's interference. While Fusco is not as connected as he once was, he's still a cop, and the NYPD has been effectively disabled by Root's activities.</p><p>"Might take days to undo the damage," Fusco says. "Some of us got phones, some of us don't—it's a real pain in the ass. Jeez. You guys don't mess around, do you? How's Carter? I still can't reach her."</p><p>"Okay for now," John says. "On the move."</p><p>"Tell her be careful, alright? These guys are <em>pissed</em>. There's been chatter about setting up a roadblock, but they can't get it off the ground 'cause someone keeps messing up their phones...all kinds of stuff."</p><p>That, Harold thinks, would probably be The Machine's influence on the activities. It sounds much like what he did when John was cornered by the FBI and HR at that hotel, only targeted more directly. But it shouldn't be doing such things. It shouldn't be interfering like this.</p><p>Later. Fusco asks for more details on Carter's whereabouts, and Harold tries to focus on the task at hand, wiping his brow again. He's sweating all over from the pain, shaking, his stomach churning. Movement seems like a terrible idea, but he must. He needs to check on Simmons again, if he can connect to Simmons' phone. He needs to find a way to communicate with Root, much as he doesn't want to. He needs to hack into the security feeds near the FBI building, or figure out the best route for Carter and Shaw to take.</p><p>He needs his abdomen to stop hurting.</p><p><em>What's the most important move, Harold?</em> he asks himself. Simmons is the one calling the shots, with Quinn in custody. He needs to find out what Simmons is up to first. Root can wait. Pain can wait. The rest cannot.</p><p>He checks the tap on Simmons' phone again, grateful that his own access hasn't been blocked by Root and The Machine. Simmons himself is silent, on the move in the direction of the FBI building himself.</p><p>"What are you planning?" he says, voice low, not interrupting John. "To intercept them yourself?" A plan—small but, hopefully, effective—pops into his head. "Wouldn't it be a shame if the FBI got a tip that a deranged corrupt police officer was on the way to stir up trouble..."</p><p>He sends an anonymous email to Carter's friend Special Agent Moss and hopes that it's received in time.</p><p>John ends his call with Fusco just as Harold's turning his attention to resuming monitoring Carter and Shaw. "Told him to go home to his kid, just in case," John says, "so he's getting to work faking a nasty case of food poisoning." With a smirk, he adds, "No one questions the shits."</p><p>"Oh." Harold makes a disgusted face. "Well, then."</p><p>Carter and Shaw are out of the subway, it looks like, and on the move too fast to be traveling on foot. He calls for a quick report, learning from Carter that Shaw liberated a car for the trip, not long after knocking Quinn unconscious.</p><p>"Is Mr. Quinn alright?" Harold asks. "There's no point in delivering a corpse to the FBI."</p><p>"Oh, yeah, he's fine," Shaw says, with far too much glee. "Guy wouldn't shut up, so I shut him up. Carter's making me keep an eye on his vitals. I'm not watching too hard. Root called, by the way." Harold's stomach drops. "Says the feds got Simmons, and, man, is he <em>pissed</em>. And HR can't even retaliate."</p><p>"Good," John says.</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, a tremor in his hollow voice. John's hand finds his next to the laptop, and lays on top of it. "Excellent news. I'm going to keep your line open until Detective Carter has turned over Mr. Quinn, but apart from Officer Simmons, I haven't seen any signs of trouble. It appears our...friend's intervention has had a definite positive effect, reluctant as I am to say it. Keep in touch, Ms. Shaw."</p><p>He mutes the call, then slumps back against the pillows with a whimper. It <em>hurts</em>. "Oh, goodness," he says, gently cradling his tender abdomen, breathing hard—worsening the pain. Tears prickle at his eyes, and he clenches them shut. "Oh, god."</p><p>"You okay?"</p><p>"No." He carefully moves his hands over his middle, but it does him no good. He feels horrible, sick and in far too much pain. "I think I need the rest of that dose now, please, and maybe part of another. Oh, god." He hopes that's the only problem—good heavens, it's nearly impossible to tell. "Please, John, please."</p><p>"Hey, hey, I'll get it for you, okay?" John says, and Harold swears he feels John's lips brush against his sweat-soaked temple—but, no, surely not. "I'll take care of you."</p><p>Before Harold can change his mind, John has the medication flowing into his blood. Carter and Shaw have Quinn, and they're fine. Simmons is in custody. Fusco seems to be safe. Root is still out there, but there's nothing he can do about that. He hopes the morphine will knock him out.</p><p>It does. He drifts off, pressed against John's side, half-listening as Quinn is turned over and the world they live in becomes a tiny bit safer, for the moment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Harold sleeps like he did those first few days home, drained to the depths of his bones, waking only for the restroom or for John to force cups of broth down his throat. It must take days—or, at least, that's the impression he gets from the shifting light around him and the changing peaceful songs on his stereo. Time has become far more nebulous than it should be. He suspects he's taken a turn for the worse, waking more than once with a cool cloth on his forehead, once to John saying something to someone about a fever and fondly calling somebody—presumably Harold—an idiot.</p><p>At one point—and he hopes it will turn out to be a false memory—he even vomits on John. The lack of anything substantial in his stomach works in his dignity's favor, but it's still humiliating to think about. When he can do it without spontaneously combusting from shame, he'll have to apologize for that.</p><p>A few times, he thinks he feels John asleep on the bed beside him. Unless John has taken up the habit of sleeping draped across his lower legs like Bear sometimes does—quite unlikely, he's guessing. Good. There's no reason for John to sleep in a damn chair.</p><p>When he wakes for good again, he feels better. More human, at least. His abdomen is still a swollen ball of pain, electrodes have been stuck to his chest again, his IV site has been moved, and, good heavens, he <em>smells</em>. It's horrific. But his mind is as clear as the painkillers allow, and he has the tiniest bit of energy for taking in the sunlit world around him.</p><p>There is much for him to do, he suspects, and he just might be able to do it.</p><p>Sometime between him falling asleep and waking, something soft and plush has materialized in the crook of his arm. It isn't Bear, who is serving as a rather heavy leg- and foot-warmer. Slow and drowsy, Harold picks it up the plush object, and finds himself holding an overly-large stuffed goldfinch.</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Birds don't have fur,</em> flits through his head, but he dismisses the thought quickly. The bird is beautiful, far larger than the actual bird and wearing black square glasses, but it's an excellent likeness nonetheless, and as he pets it, he finds a smile creeping onto his face.</p><p>Without thinking, he brings it to his chest, wrapping his arms around the oversized finch, closing his eyes and resting his chin atop the softness of its head. There's something inexplicably soothing about the childish gesture, and, good heavens, he needs the comfort.</p><p>He doesn't know how long he spends cuddling the toy, because he falls asleep again. How boring. But when he wakes again, it seems to be afternoon, and time for another broth lunch.</p><p>John smiles when he opens his eyes without prompting, sweet and relieved, and very lovely. Harold can't help smiling back, and says, "Hello."</p><p>John's smile widens. "Hey there." He sets the mug of broth on the nightstand, and presses the back of his hand to Harold's forehead. "You feeling better?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies, and he sets the toy aside so John can help him get upright. He's significantly weaker than he was a few days ago, but that's not why he leans fully into John's helpful touch. It's hard to resist someone who feels so good, so strong and warm, someone who smells of evergreen and coffee and comfort and safety.</p><p>But the touch is far too fleeting. Soon, he is propped up on pillows, mug of chicken broth in his cold, unsteady hands, John stationed in his armchair. "What happened?" Harold asks, as the fragrant steam heats his face and fogs his glasses. "Did I take a turn for the worse?"</p><p>"Yeah," John replies, a shadow passing over his face. "Developed an infection. Thought Shaw was gonna have to open you back up for a bit, but you pulled through without surgery." His smile returns, small and proud. "You're a real trooper, though, aren't you?"</p><p>Harold shrugs a shoulder. "My body always has been rather determined to survive, it seems." He takes a cautious sip of his broth, but it's not too hot to drink, and feels good on his dry throat. The first drink goes down easy, so he swallows more, even though he's getting so damn tired of broth. "How is Detective Carter?"</p><p>"Officially Detective Carter again," John says, and updates him quickly: Quinn and Simmons are in custody, as are many more of HR's members. Judge Monahan is dead, as expected. HR is trying to drag Carter's name through the mud, claiming she's been working with the Man in the Suit, among others, but they have no proof.</p><p>And Root is still gone.</p><p>Those words are as efficient at knocking the air from his lungs as a hard kick to his wounded stomach. "Oh, god," he says, handing John his mug and covering his face with his hands. "Any news?"</p><p>"No," John says, and Harold groans. "She just didn't come back."</p><p>"Of course she didn't," Harold snaps. "Why would she?" He runs his hands down his face, despair settling over him like a shroud. "No hints regarding her whereabouts? Nothing?"</p><p>"Haven't heard a word," John replies. "No gloating, no nothing. Fusco said she kneecapped a couple cops the other night, but other than that? She's in the wind again."</p><p>"With The Machine in her ear and no one to stop her."</p><p>"I put up a few more security cameras around the perimeter." John gestures toward a TV sitting in the corner that Harold hadn't spotted, hooked to lengthy wires taped to the floorboards. "Not networked, so she can't watch 'em. Went old school."</p><p>A chill runs through Harold. "So you've been out?"</p><p>"I didn't leave you alone," John says, gently. "Shaw showed up at the front door a couple hours after I told her you had a fever." Harold groans. "I promise—I didn't invite her over. There's a, uh—or <em>was</em>—a tracker in Bear's collar."</p><p>"Really?" Harold furrows his brow. "I've checked it multiple times."</p><p>"Think she might've put it there after you got hurt," John says. "Anyway, once you started getting a little better, I called her back over and had her keep an eye on you while I got a few things, but she showed up on her own first."</p><p>Well, Harold supposes there are worse people who could know his home address than Sameen Shaw—Leon Tao comes to mind, now that Root is so connected to his own all-knowing Machine.</p><p>Best not to think about that. Instead, Harold picks up the plush finch and sets it in his lap, and says, "Like this inexplicably-furry goldfinch that Bear hasn't claimed for his own?"</p><p>John chuckles. "That I found online when you first got home," he says. "Commissioned it from someone." Harold's eyebrows rise. "Just got here yesterday."</p><p>"You commissioned it from someone," Harold repeats, with disbelief, and John gives him a little shrug, a slight smile at the corners of his lips.</p><p>"Thought it might make you feel better."</p><p>Harold's heart squeezes tight in his chest. "Oh."</p><p>"Told Bear to leave it alone." John turns to look at the dog, who is happily gnawing on some sort of large treat stick. Harold thinks it might be one of those bull penis sticks—courtesy of Shaw, no doubt. He shudders, while John adds, "He thought it was for him, but I think I convinced him it's for you."</p><p>Oh, goodness. John bought him a stuffed animal—had it made especially for him, even, and it's even wearing his glasses. It's such a sweet, innocent, <em>cute</em> gesture that Harold isn't entirely sure how to react without saying something equally sappy, like, <em>"I love you dearly."</em> "Well. Thank you."</p><p>"Its name is Harold." John's hint of a smile turns into a grin. "Harold Finch."</p><p>Harold huffs out a laugh. "Well, what else would its name be?" He sets it back in its place at his hip, and catches a whiff of himself. "Oof."</p><p>"Still hurting pretty bad?" John asks, placing a hand on Harold's knee.</p><p>"No," Harold replies, then reconsiders. "Well, yes, but..." He makes a face. "I also smell rather...ripe."</p><p>"Oh." John looks surprised. "Yeah, kind of. I didn't really notice." Harold's eyebrows rise. "I've been homeless. Volunteer with homeless people. I promise I was gonna give you another spongebath today, but...I'm really not a very good judge of that kind of thing anymore."</p><p>"Well, I <em>am</em>, I'm afraid—at least when it comes to myself—and I need that shower you promised me a few days ago. I don't think a spongebath will be enough for this...aroma."</p><p>"Drink your broth first." John hands the mug back to Harold. "Then I'll help you out. Okay?"</p><p>Harold nods once. "I accept those terms, Mr. Reese," he says, and takes another sip. He doesn't finish the entire mug, but John seems satisfied with what he does manage, smiling as he heads off to the kitchen with the mostly-empty cup. While he's gone, Harold leans back and dozes some more, wrapping an arm around the stuffed bird, resting his other hand over his warmth-filled stomach. He feels surprisingly good, for someone who is simultaneously feeling so utterly <em>terrible</em>, full of homemade broth, holding a childish but heartfelt gift, ready to get the sweat and grime of sickness washed away.</p><p>Somehow, the thought of John seeing his naked body again isn't even daunting. Not anymore—not like it should be. There's no thrill of arousal or excitement at the idea, not with him so weak and weary, not with him stinking of old sweat and still in pain, but it settles something inside him, pleases something inside him.</p><p>After everything, John still looks at him with fondness and respect. John has officially seen him at his worst, and has not used any of what he's witnessed as a weapon. Not once has John made fun of him—a stuffed animal for a grown man could easily have been mocking, but one that's custom made is something else entirely. A shower would be a prime opportunity for making fun of him, but so would trips to the restroom or all those times his wounded insides have rumbled aloud. There are books that are even more oriented for children than <em>The Hobbit</em> in his collection, but John picked that one because he could tell Harold loved it.</p><p>He wouldn't have thought it possible, but he seems to be falling more and more in love with John by the second.</p><p>John returns with a box of plastic cling wrap in one hand and a roll of medical tape in the other, and Harold wonders if he should rethink all of that. "To cover your gut," John explains, as Harold eyes the box warily. "It's what I always use when I'm hurt bad."</p><p>"Oh." That makes sense, actually. By the time John was ready to bathe after he was shot, Harold was no longer taking care of his injuries. "Well, thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>As always, getting out of bed and undressed is excessively complicated, made worse by new monitors stuck to his body. Those get removed, tugging at his chest hair, leaving behind sticky residue that's even more of an incentive to get clean. He wonders aloud, not for the first time, when he'll finally be able to discard the IV as well.</p><p>"Still gonna be a bit," John says, grimacing. "Sorry. Maybe once you can handle solids again?"</p><p>Harold heaves a sigh. "Very well. I suppose I'll tolerate it for now, if I must."</p><p>He walks to the bathroom on trembling legs, even weaker than before, feeling every bit of his loss of strength. A walk like the one to the back garden would be impossible now, unfortunately. Perhaps once he's cleaned up, though, he could persuade John to take him outside?</p><p>"What do you think of picking up <em>The Hobbit</em> again after this?" he asks, turning to face John, ignoring the resulting burn in his middle. "If I have enough energy, that is."</p><p>John's face lights up, but he doesn't smile. "I'd be good with that. I kept reading it to you, uh, when you were sick." He scratches the side of his head, looking almost shy. Harold raises his eyebrows—he doesn't remember that at all. "But I marked where we left off the other day. If you're feeling up to it, I'd be happy to read you some more."</p><p>"Excellent," Harold says. "I look forward to it."</p><p>But, as John takes over for his trembling hands, helping him undress and covering his wounds, Harold quickly starts to suspect that the only trip he's going to take after this is another journey to Dreamland. It's frustrating—even the simplest of activities are so <em>draining</em>. He says as much, and John says, "I know. I'm sorry. But you've been really sick. Nobody's expecting you to act like you're healthy right now."</p><p>Harold sighs. "I know. I just...it—well, it <em>sucks</em>."</p><p>John chuckles slightly. "Yeah, it really does. But you'll get better. It'll take a bit, but you'll get better. No more going without your pain meds, though."</p><p>"No," Harold says, "no, I don't think my body needs that stress again." The infection probably would've popped up anyway, he suspects, but straining himself like that did him no favors. "Hopefully it'll be smooth sailing from here on out. No more taking down large criminal organizations until there are no more stitches in my belly."</p><p>"No more," John confirms, pressing the last strip of tape in place. "Just rest and showers."</p><p>He helps Harold into the massive shower, and Harold sinks down on the shower seat inside, jumping slightly and yelping, "Oh, dear!" when his naked rear end touches the cool bench. "That's...not warm."</p><p>"But this will be." John adjusts the front and back shower heads, so the fresh water from each won't hit Harold—though he needn't; showers are one area of his life where Harold spares no expense, and this one heats rather quickly. "Need me to join you and help out?"</p><p>Harold grits his teeth, resentment flaring up hot, the word <em>invalid</em> flashing through his mind. But John's expression is open, accepting of any response, and Harold...he is tired. The irritation dies down fast. His hands are shaky, his body weak and sick and sore. It's hard to move in certain directions, almost impossible. Even at the best of times, movement is tricky. With his belly torn to pieces, it's all too easy to imagine the agony if he makes one wrong move.</p><p>He suspects he has no choice. </p><p>"I think that would be wise, yes," he replies, and regrets it the instant John strips off his t-shirt.</p><p>Oh. Oh, <em>goodness</em>.</p><p>It's not the first time he's seen John without a shirt—that came early in their partnership—nor will it likely be the last, but, <em>goodness</em>. Harold's eyes go wide without his permission, his cheeks hot, and he stares, a soft, "Oh, my," slipping out of his suddenly-dry mouth, hopefully drowned out by the shower's loud spray.</p><p>If John decides to comment, he'll blame the drugs, but Harold can't help letting his eyes roam over John's long, healthy body. John is beautiful, his scarred skin golden, his muscles taut and prominent beneath the faint softness of his flesh. Harold watches the play of those muscles in John's flogging-scarred back as John moves around, putting his shirt carefully aside and going for his jeans and briefs.</p><p>His ass is, as expected, spectacular. A scar slashes one full, tight cheek, a swipe of pink across pale skin, but even that doesn't look like an imperfection, unlike Harold's own old and new scars. John looks like a fighter, a warrior, the brave soldier that he is, healthy and beautiful and full of life.</p><p>Harold's stomach sinks. He doesn't have the slightest chance, does he?</p><p>John turns around, and Harold forces himself not to look at John's flaccid penis. He's seen it before, by accident, but it feels like too much of an intrusion now. Instead, he admires John's upper body—the gentle plumpness curving his belly, the definition of his chest and shoulders and arms. His nipples catch Harold's eye, one perfect and peaked, one marred by a scar, and Harold feels like a lech, filthy and perverted. A "horndog," Nathan probably would've said. This is his friend, he tells himself sternly, his very dear friend, not his lover. He doesn't have permission to look at John like this.</p><p>But he still can't stop staring.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, John catches him, and—either fortunately or unfortunately; Harold cannot decide—misinterprets his ogling entirely. "Yeah," John says, with an awkward smile, and scratches the back of his head again. "It's, uh. There's a lot of 'em, isn't there?"</p><p>That's enough to jolt Harold back to terra firma. "You say that like I'm not covered myself," he says, gesturing toward his own body—his neck, his hip, his belly, then placing a hand gently over the worst new scar on the latter, the one running down the middle like a zipper on a jacket. "I'm merely—" He searches for a suitable lie, then stumbles upon something that's true instead. "—in awe of how much you have survived."</p><p>John smiles slightly. "You're a survivor, too," he says, and Harold scoffs. "No, you've been through a lot, and you're still here, fighting for good." Harold nearly rolls his eyes, but John goes on. "You don't have to act like you're not a fighter. Not around me." His smile widens. "Believe me—I know what they look like."</p><p>"Oh." Harold sits back, blindsided. Shaky, he adds, "Thank you," and John's expression softens.</p><p>"You're welcome." He slips behind Harold, and Harold hears the shift in the spray of the water. "Ready for this?"</p><p>With a deep breath, Harold nods, and braces himself. "Hit me."</p><p>The spray hits his head, his neck, his back, rushing down his skin, and Harold can't hold back a groan. It's <em>incredible</em>, just a few degrees shy of heavenly, and once he gets John to turn up the heat a tad until it stings, it's <em>perfect</em>. He closes his eyes and moans again, savoring the gentle burn, his tight muscles unlocking and warmth spreading through his now ever-cold body.</p><p>John stays quiet, and Harold hears him washing himself, smells his own milk and honey soap and citrusy bergamot shampoo on the steamy air. While the thought of John smelling like him sends an electric thrill through Harold's body, it pales in comparison to the sheer <em>pleasure</em> of the water on his skin. He leans into the spray, careful not to jar his battered body, letting the hot water run through his hair and down his face. Such a simple thing, so sorely missed without him realizing it, and he'd be content to do nothing more than let the water caress his aching body forever.</p><p>"How much help do you need?" John asks, jolting him from his reverie. Help with—oh, bathing. Right. He's supposed to be getting clean.</p><p>When he doesn't reply quickly, John takes hold of his hand, and runs the bar of soap up the length of his arm, spreading the rich, moisturizing lather all the way to his shoulder. Harold shivers. He knows he should stop John, that he has enough strength to wash himself, but it feels <em>good</em>, and when he opens his eyes, he finds John's expression is the picture of contentment—no, not contentment. Devotion.</p><p>John's gaze meets his, wide-eyed and naked, and realization hits hard: John <em>wants</em> to do this for him, maybe even needs it.</p><p>Harold shuts his eyes again, and says, "I am quite tired," not resisting even when John goes to wash under his arm. It's frighteningly intimate, a terrible breach of boundaries, a shift in their relationship that he should stop immediately.</p><p>But it feels so good he could weep.</p><p>"Yeah," John says, soft voice melding with the rush of water. "You're having a rough time, aren't you? But I'll take good care of you. I promise."</p><p>Yes. Yes, he will. And Harold will find a way to rationalize allowing it—he always does. Perhaps protecting his wounds would be a good excuse. John is steady, healthy. Harold is not. Most likely, he would drop the slippery bar of soap, or accidentally get something wet that must stay dry, or strain something that shouldn't be strained. Best not to risk it.</p><p>And if he can't indulge in something that feels good while recovering from stab wounds, when can he?</p><p>John moves on, swiping the bar of soap over Harold's chest, scrubbing at the lingering adhesive, working the hair into a soft lather. "Nice fur coat you've been hiding under those suits," he says, amused.</p><p>It takes a moment for Harold to realize he should respond. "Not quite as impressive as it once was, since the surgery," he says.</p><p>"It'll grow back." John dodges Harold's nipples—both a pity and a relief—and, when he moves on to Harold's throat, quick and thorough, his fingers seem to miss Harold's pounding pulse. Somehow, that makes it easier to relax again, and Harold's mind drifts in the pleasant cloud of sweet-smelling steam as John soaps up his other arm, his legs and feet, the rest of his body—even between his toes—avoiding his groin and his plastic-covered belly.</p><p>He rinses Harold clean, urges Harold up on shaky feet so Harold can take care of his more private areas on his own—another relieving disappointment, but Harold's not sure his body could handle the reawakening of his libido in such a way.</p><p>Until John sits him back down and turns his attention to Harold's hair.</p><p>Already he was in a state of near bliss, but the bergamot tang, the lingering honey sweetness, the hot steam turn heady as John starts to work the shampoo into his hair. Harold barely holds back a near moan. Strong fingers move with determination over his scalp, kneading the sensitive skin and working fragrant shampoo into a lush lather, leaving him flushed and tingling.</p><p>Harold sighs, and John says, "Yeah, I know," and deepens the pressure. Harold's brain melts. Somehow, he feels it everywhere, warmth spreading from John's fingers throughout his body, reverberating through his blood. His pulse thrums under his skin, crackling with electricity, strengthened by the marvelous strokes of John's massaging fingers.</p><p>Does it feel so good because nothing else has felt good in weeks, Harold wonders, or is it truly that incredible?</p><p>Oh, it hardly matters. John's fingers are far more of a revelation than any cleansing touch has a right to be, spreading comfort and care and, yes, even arousal through Harold's nerves. If his cock weren't such a recalcitrant thing even when he is at what passes for the peak of health for him, he fears how revealing its reaction would be—and what John might think of it. Fortunately, it stays still in his lap, despite the sporadic sparks of muted need curling up deep down inside him, letting Harold's fears and pain dissolve into the warm steam and the rhythm of incredible hands.</p><p>Goodness, it has been far too long since anyone has touched his bare body like this. His eyes sting. He thinks he might cry.</p><p>No...no, he <em>is</em> crying. How unusual. He isn't someone who cries. But after everything, is it any wonder he is ready to break? So many years of pain, so many years without kindness, until now. How on earth could anyone handle something like this without a few conflicting emotions?</p><p>He lets it happen, lets himself cry, lets himself <em>feel</em>. He lets himself feel every pass of John's nails over his scalp, John's fingers moving through his hair, the pressure and the fragrant suds and the incredible sting of water on his back. He lets himself feel how much John cares, how much he matters to John, how much kindness he is receiving. He lets himself have this, for once, with no resistance, lets this one good thing happen to him, and savors every second of it.</p><p>The moment stretches endlessly on, John working the shampoo into his hair for far longer than necessary, or not long enough. Harold can scarcely tell which, his mind and body both turned into putty by the simple touch. He floats, drifts through the sweet, hot steam, carried away from his pain and falling tears to a place where it almost cannot touch him.</p><p>If nothing changes between them after he's healed, Harold may have to switch shampoo brands for the sake of his sanity, he suspects.</p><p>Far too soon or far too late—Harold cannot decide which—John is done, washing the shampoo but not the memory away. Once the last of the suds have disappeared down the drain, John rubs a tuft of Harold's hair between his fingers, and says, "There we go. Squeaky clean," with audible, almost childish delight.</p><p>Harold blinks, dazed, and stares into the cautious joy of John's smile. He can't help smiling himself, even though part of him feels like he's coming undone at the fraying seams of his heart. He looks up into John's happy eyes, and that damnable organ in his chest skips a few beats. "Thank you," he says, and the inadequate words try to stay stuck in his mouth.</p><p>"Anytime." John stops toying with Harold's hair, then, for one heart stopping moment, starts to reach for Harold's face, but quickly pulls his hand back, looking embarrassed, and Harold wipes his eyes himself and lets the water carry his tears down the drain.</p><p>"So, uh, that's done," John continues, with an unusual lack of composure, "unless you want to, uh...wash your face with soap like a normal person, instead of using that goop I saw in the cabinet out there."</p><p>That breaks the moment, though not entirely. Harold rolls his aching eyes, and says, "I use that <em>goop</em> for a reason." His skin is sensitive, and he knows he is no gracefully-aging beauty. "And I've been seriously neglecting my routine."</p><p>John's smile turns fond again—sappy, even, if Harold didn't know better. "You are one-of-a-kind, aren't you, Harold?" he says, without mockery or malice, and turns off the shower. "Want me to help out with your routine, too, before I change your dressings?"</p><p>Harold considers it, as he stands on legs that have turned to jelly, a death grip on the bar on the wall and his trusty IV pole. Oh, no, he doesn't have the strength for the full regimen, alas. Soon, though. "Just the bare minimum, I think—cleanser and moisturizer."</p><p>"Cleanser, moisturizer," John repeats, going for a towel. He wraps Harold in its fluffy blue embrace, and guides him to the armchair in the corner of the bathroom. It's funny—something like a chair in his bathroom seemed like a needless luxury once upon a time, but it has more than justified its presence since the bombing, Harold thinks. "Cleanser, moisturizer, belly."</p><p>"In that order?" Harold asks.</p><p>"Sure," John replies. "And while you're prettying up, I'll go change the sheets."</p><p>A few swipes of a cleansing wipe and a generous slathering of moisturizer later, Harold feels nearly normal. If not for the pain in his abdomen and his medical paraphernalia, and the muted daylight filtering through the frosted window high above the shower, he could almost convince himself that he's just completing part of his normal evening ritual. He's come home many a night exhausted enough that this was all he could manage.</p><p>Then, he catches a good glimpse of his face in the mirror, and the illusion is shattered. "Oh," he says, recoiling and cringing. "Oh, dear." And he thought he looked terrible the other day. Somehow, he looks even closer to death than before. His skin is bone white, save for the near black under his eyes. He needs a shave, badly—something he'd noticed already, but it's different with the reality staring him in the face. Prettying up? Good heavens, he'd need to call in a professional for such a task, and even the best of the best might fail.</p><p>All of John's romantic and sexual partners—that he knows about—have been <em>stunning</em>, a small line of breathtaking women with beauty equal to John's. At his best, Harold is merely a cute old man who looks a little odd. And he is far from his best. John is not a shallow person, but that doesn't mean a man who looks like a bloated ghoul stands a chance.</p><p>Harold sighs heavily. There is no point in moping—not when he could be doing something else instead, like brushing his teeth or tackling the budding mess of hair on his face. He forces himself to stand, not biting back a groan, and makes his way to the sink. By himself.</p><p>It's exhausting, but it's progress.</p><p>He gets his teeth clean, his deodorant on, but his hand shakes too much as he goes for his straight razor, and he knocks the case and the shaving cream to the floor with a noisy clatter. His towel hits the floor with a soft whumph shortly after.</p><p>All of his emotions crash down on him at once.</p><p>"Oh, <em>fuck</em>," he yells, and, in a fit of pique, sends the deodorant and the toothbrush and toothpaste down to join them. He's so tired of this—tired of hurting, tired of being so very weak, tired of needing someone's help with every single thing. So much pain, so much fear, so much sickness and weakness and grief, all of them piling and piling and piling upon him, some one after another, some simultaneously. And now this, too, has gone wrong. So many things going wrong.</p><p>How is anyone supposed to take it?</p><p>And, of course, John hears, and comes rushing in, frantic, towel nearly falling down. "Are you okay?" he asks, breathless and terrified.</p><p>All Harold can do is stare at him, feeling helpless and hopeless, broken, <em>humiliated</em>. "I wanted to shave," he explains, voice quiet and small. Unable to face John any longer, he looks down, but then he has to face the abnormal roundness of his belly, the length of his toenails, the things he knocked to the floor. John is, somehow, safer, so he looks back at John instead. "Such a foolish idea in this state, I know, but I just..." He waves a hand. "And I dropped some things."</p><p>Fear turns to sympathy. "Yeah," John says, glancing at the toothbrush on the floor near the chair, the toothpaste several feet away near the shower, the bronze holder for both by the toilet. The towel. "It's okay. Or it will be."</p><p>Suddenly, Harold feels almost like crying again.</p><p>"I'll help you shave," John continues, "and we'll go from there, okay?"</p><p>A vision of bright light hitting a sharp blade, the glint on cold metal and the sheen of red blood fills his head. Someone else shaving him, having anything sharp that close to him again...it makes his stomach turn.</p><p>"Not yet," Harold says. It's not about shaving, deep down—not really. "I just want..." Harold releases his grip on the sink to run a hand over his face, then clutches at the sink again. "I just want to do something on my own again. I want to be <em>myself</em> again."</p><p>"You will," John insists. "All of this is temporary." He steps closer, and lays a hand over Harold's. "You've been down this road before. You know how it goes. Things suck for a while—sometimes for a long while, sometimes forever—but you get stronger, and you get better, and after a while, if you're lucky, you get to wash your own ass and shave your own face.</p><p>"I don't mind doing these things for you," John adds, quickly. "But I know you'd rather do 'em yourself. And you'll get there."</p><p>Harold exhales, averting his eyes from John's understanding, painful gaze, and finds himself staring at the deodorant on the floor. So many thoughts of what to say next pass through his mind—about how weak he feels, how useless. Then his thoughts turn to John, and he makes himself look at John again as he says, "You're an incredible man, John. Thank you."</p><p>"You're welcome." A considering look crosses John's face, and he glances to Harold's abdomen, then back to Harold's face. "I want to show you something. It might backfire, but, uh...I think you need to see it."</p><p>John pulls the armchair closer, dodging the detritus on the floor, and urges Harold to sit in front of the mirror. Harold watches their reflections as John starts to peel away the protective plastic wrap on Harold's abdomen. His instincts beg for him to avert his eyes, to avoid looking at the carnage the layers of cling wrap nearly concealed. But he watches as John reveals his bruised and swollen belly, doesn't look away when John turns to wash his hands, and keeps looking as John pulls off the white dressings over the wounds.</p><p>Seven stab wounds, scattered like a constellation across his abdomen, framing the lengthy incision down the middle that saved his life. Each one is ugly, horrifying, out of place, and, with distance between the injury and now, he can remember the exact order they entered his body.</p><p>The first went in below his navel, slightly to the left, almost mirroring his faded appendectomy scar. He'd just turned around, full teapot in hand, the tea inside ready to be served. He can still feel the blade sliding into him, the burning pain of the cold knife going deep into his body. Can still hear the gasp he let out, the crash of the teapot falling from his distracted hands to the floor as he tried to clutch uselessly at the pain, the sickening wet noise as the knife wrung a pained, animal groan from his throat. It's burned as deeply into his brain as the last words his father said to him before he ran, as Nathan's last words, as the last sight of his dearest friend's bloody face and the sound of Grace calling his name and falling apart.</p><p>Then Everett stabbed him again. Again. Harold begged, pleaded, tried to get a hold of the knife, shredded his own fingers on the blade that kept tearing him to pieces. Mortally wounded. He'd thought for certain he was mortally wounded, said, <em>"I think you've already killed me,"</em> a sentence he fears will fill his nightmares for the rest of his life, once he's healed enough to dream properly again.</p><p>He looks at the wounds in the mirror, with their tidy stitches that hide just how deep they go, and he feels like throwing up, like weeping. He can't remember how to breathe.</p><p>"This one went the deepest," John says, pointing out the first one, his fingertip brushing Harold's belly with a light tap. "Damaged your large and small intestine, and so did this one. This one—" John taps next to another, then another. "—got just the large. Shaw thinks it's the one that got infected this time."</p><p>Another tap, this time earning, "This one tore up your small intestine. So did this one." That one is the one that nicked his artery, "Just barely, but enough to fuck you up pretty bad.</p><p>"These other two—" John motions toward one, then another, both longer than the others, one of them the final wound that went into his body. "—if those were all he did, we'd be having this conversation at the Library instead of here. You'd be just fine."</p><p>"And if they'd gone deeper?" Harold has a good guess, but he's curious.</p><p>"One would've hit your lung, the other would've torn your stomach all to pieces. They didn't. But the rest..." John shakes his head, and Harold notices that his eyes are shining. Guilt and regret start tangling with the other emotions roiling in his stomach. "He almost <em>killed you</em>, Harold. That's why you're not bouncing right back. I almost lost you."</p><p>John seems to catch himself, biting his lip and running the back of his hand across his damp eyes. "<em>We</em> almost lost you."</p><p>"I'm sorry," Harold says, the words slipping out.</p><p>John looks like he's been slapped, eyes going wide and bewildered. "What?"</p><p>"I'm sorry," Harold repeats. "For the both of us." He sighs. "I have...I have always been willing to die for what we do, but this was...this was such unnecessary cruelty. This was so senseless. Why did he do that to me? I couldn't exactly chase after him if he left. He could have done like Wayne Kruger and simply incapacitated me. Why didn't he—and why didn't I fight back?"</p><p>"Harold..."</p><p>"I had a teapot full of hot water in my hand. I had a weapon, and all I did was drop it. Why didn't I fling it at him? Why didn't I strike at his eyes like you taught me? Why didn't I <em>do</em> anything? I keep trying to understand, and...I don't."</p><p>"Sometimes you just freeze up," John says, gently. "You'd just been <em>stabbed</em>. You were in pain. You were scared. Freezing up? It happens. You're not a government-trained assassin, Harold—you're a guy some bastard tried to kill. You're not the person who should be apologizing here. But he's dead."</p><p>Harold nods. Yes, Everett is dead—and he hasn't even asked about how. "Who killed him?" he says, quietly. "I know one of you did—don't even bother to deny it. I just...I'd like to know who. I think I should know who."</p><p>He's expecting John to admit to it, so he's stunned when John says, "Fusco shot him. You were still in surgery—that first one. You were in really bad shape. Everett made a move on his wife. Fusco took him out." Voice dropping to a whisper, John adds, "I couldn't leave. I was going to, but I just..."</p><p>Harold places his hand on John's damp arm, and waits for John to keep going.</p><p>"'In the end we're all alone,'" John says, as though reciting something, "'and no one's coming to save you.' That's what I said to Jessica, at the airport. I couldn't...I couldn't let that be true for you. If you were gonna die, I couldn't let you do it alone."</p><p>Harold's eyes start to sting again, and water. Not knowing what to say, he nods, and squeezes John's arm. A mere <em>thank you</em> seems so inadequate for the gratitude and love threatening to crack open his chest. But it's the best he can manage. "I thank you for staying," he says, even though it isn't nearly enough.</p><p>"I don't know if I did the right thing," John says, his voice hollow. "I think I did, maybe. I just...you called us by our names. On the phone that day. You used our names."</p><p>"Did I?" Harold tries to remember, even though he suspects it is a bad idea. "I thought..." No. <em>"John, Sameen...we have a situation."</em> That's what he'd said, not the more formal <em>Mr. Reese</em> and <em>Ms. Shaw.</em> Huh. He can't remember if he's ever called Shaw <em>Sameen</em> before.</p><p>But it plays out so clearly now, the memory bright and shining like the blood and the tea on the floor. His knees hitting the tile, his body overwhelmed by the damage and the breathtaking pain—it hurt so much, his entire abdomen alight with agony. He fell to his side, clutching his stomach, and reached for his earpiece with a trembling hand the instant he heard the front door slam closed. <em>"John, Sameen...we have a situation."</em></p><p>Shaw swore, irritated by the interruption to her work, but John—he could tell John recognized that something was terribly wrong by the tone of his voice. <em>"Harold? What's wrong?"</em> he asked, soft and afraid.</p><p><em>"We were wrong about Mr. Everett being the victim,"</em> Harold replied, rolling onto his back in hopes of relieving some of the pain—countering new agony with the old, and failing miserably. Between gasps and pained repetitions of, "Oh," and, "Oh, god," he choked out, <em>"My stomach. I've been stabbed in my abdomen,"</em> and, <em>"It's...it's bad. Very bad."</em></p><p>"That's how I knew: You said our names. Scared the hell out of me." John looks away. "Then it got worse. Finding out you'd been hurt...seeing all the blood..."</p><p>"I was rather frightened myself, I admit," Harold says. "I was..." He takes a deep breath, and forces himself to say, "I was quite certain I was going to die that day. But I didn't. I have you to thank for that."</p><p>"I abandoned them," John says. "Everett's wife, his kids. The second I found out you were in trouble...I couldn't...his <em>kids</em>, Harold..."</p><p>Oh, how that must haunt John. He loves kids so much. Having to choose between protecting them and protecting Harold had to have been an agonizing choice. But he'd called for help—or, no, if Harold remembers correctly, Fusco was already on his way there when he was attacked. He thinks he may even remember overhearing John telling Fusco, <em>"Harold's been hurt. I have to go,"</em> but it's such a distant memory that it could be false.</p><p>"You left them in good hands," Harold says. Fusco had protected them well. John leaving them for him is not ideal, even to Harold—especially to Harold—but, considering the circumstances, he understands the decision. "And I was actively dying. It was a terrible position for you to be put in—I certainly don't envy you for it. Was it the right choice? I don't kn—"</p><p>"Yes," John says, looking at Harold again, into his eyes. "And I'd make it every single time."</p><p>Harold's heart clenches. "Then you made the right call. And I'm grateful."</p><p>They don't say much for a while after that. John wraps Harold back up in his towel and dips out to fetch the medical kit from the bedroom, then comes back and cleans Harold's belly, bandages his wounds. As he works, Harold watches John's fingers, entranced by how gently the long, callused digits move over his skin. His heartache grows with every touch, with the swipes of cool antiseptic wipes between his many cuts, with the careful pressure of gauze and tape being spread over tender injuries. It's painful, but only barely, and every bandage goes on neat and precise.</p><p>John is so good to him. He's seen how John patches his own wounds. John is taking far greater care with him than he ever would with himself. John touches him with reverence, like he is something precious, something John cannot afford to lose, and Harold's traitorous brain starts to wonder.</p><p>There is no doubt in his mind that John loves him—not anymore. John is a man with a big, generous heart, and he has shown time and again that a sizable portion of it is devoted to his love for Harold. But what <em>kind</em> of love is it, Harold wonders. There are many kinds—what kind is aimed toward him?</p><p>Should he dare to make a move and try to find out?</p><p>"All done," John says, breaking the spell of silence as he gently pats down the last bandage and flashes Harold a small, brief smile. "I'm guessing you'd probably like some clothes, huh?"</p><p>Oh. Right. He's still very naked, isn't he, and John nearly so. "They would be appreciated, yes." He looks down at himself, tugging the towel over his groin, and catches sight of his toenails again. He sighs. "And I'm sorry, but I need you to do yet another thing for me when we're done."</p><p>John stops in the doorway, hand on the frame, and asks, "Yeah, what is it?" without hesitation.</p><p>Harold cringes. Surely at some point, one of the dull, mundane, easy tasks will prove to be one too many, and John will snap at him to do it himself. But it's something that needs to be done, and even when he's at his best, he simply cannot bend the right way anymore. "My toenails," he explains. "They need trimmed. I'm sorry. Usually I see a podiatrist for it, but I missed my appointment because of..." He gestures toward his belly. "Everything."</p><p>Eyebrows rising, John says, slowly, "You see a doctor to get a pedicure."</p><p>Harold's jaw clenches almost involuntarily. "Yes. Well, for basic foot care needs, yes." <em>Need I remind you that I am disabled?</em> he thinks, and wonders if he should elaborate.</p><p>But John is sharp, and puts the pieces together far more quickly than Harold would've guessed. "Medical reasons. You can't feel your left foot very well." Harold's eyebrows shoot up. "You kinda squirm away when I put socks on the right—you're ticklish, but only on that one. You have—"</p><p>"Nerve damage," Harold finishes. "I'm always keeping an eye on it for problems—ulcers, ingrown nails, any other unpleasantness—but it's prudent to have a professional double-check." Once again, he wonders, this time out loud, "How the <em>hell</em> do I explain all of this to my doctors?"</p><p>"If anyone can come up with an excuse, it's you."</p><p>Harold sighs. "So many things to explain away, so many loose ends to tie up." He's used to juggling so many proverbial balls. Not being able to handle things like this now is disconcerting...but understandable. "I'll figure out an excuse when I must. My next appointment's not for a while. I just...I'm ready to be myself again."</p><p>"You're not that far off," John says. "You saved Carter. And once you can get off the heavy duty drugs, you'll be yourself in no time. Back to building machines and flying planes and outsmarting everyone."</p><p>Harold nods. "I was in the middle of repairing a machine before this, actually—two of them," he says, and John's eyebrows rise with curiosity. "Fixing an old record player for my gardener and restoring a vintage GTO. It's a hobby of mine—repairing old things." He doesn't know why he's telling John this, but the way John smiles makes it worth it.</p><p>"Sounds like fun," John says, and, his grin turning wry, adds, "for you."</p><p>Harold lets out a surprised laugh. "Yes, I can't see you being interested in restoration work, unless it's a gun you intend to use eventually."</p><p>"You might be surprised," John says, and, yes, on further consideration, maybe he could see John joining him in restoring an old vehicle. John does like fast cars, after all. "Zoe keeps telling me to find a hobby that's not kneecapping people. Maybe I'll finally listen one of these days."</p><p>Harold ignores the pang of jealousy, and says, "Ms. Morgan is a wise woman."</p><p>"Yeah," John says, his smile turning affectionate, and Harold's heart breaks. "She is. No idea what I'd do, though. Been watching your guy Ryan fixing up your backyard, taking care of your plants—that seems kind of neat. Plants and dirt and all that stuff."</p><p>"And you seem to enjoy cooking," Harold points out, his voice surprisingly steady despite the ache in his chest. Good heavens, he needs to end this infatuation, and fast. But John is his friend—his dear, depressed friend. Any efforts to improve his life should be encouraged. "Perhaps you could give baking more of your attention."</p><p>"Oh, I have," John says. "Kind of hard when I never know when my boss is gonna call me with another job—" He gives Harold a teasing look, and Harold manages a weak laugh. "—but I make stuff for people every now and then."</p><p>That's news to him. Harold is surprised by how much the revelation hurts. "So where are my homemade pastries?" he asks, trying to turn it into a joke. It falls flat.</p><p>"Haven't made anything good enough for you yet." John sounds sincere, and Harold's heart knits itself back together. How silly of him to doubt John, after all the man has done for him lately. "I wanna impress you. And when I really get the hang of it?" He reaches out and very lightly taps Harold's belly with his knuckles. "You'll get sick of me."</p><p>"I highly doubt that. You know of my weakness for baked goods." He puts a hand on his sore middle, and adds, "When I don't have a constant stomachache, that is."</p><p>"Yeah," John says, face falling with sympathy. "Let's go get you some more rest, okay?"</p><p>Harold nods, and lets John help him again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John gets him dressed in fresh pajamas—another silk set with birds, one that Harold doesn't recognize that turns out to be another gift from John—and leads him to his bed, then helps him with his nails. He falls asleep easily afterward, lulled by the warmth of Bear against his side and the mismatched rhythms of John's and Bear's breaths.</p><p>Later, he wakes up sweating, gasping, jolted back to awareness by an agonizing twinge in his side. But it's not a new sort of pain—not anymore—and once he shifts his position, biting back a moan, the sensation fades into the familiar old-new misery, instead of something resembling having a meat hook lodged in his internal organs.</p><p>What is new, however, is the weight draped over his chest. It takes a moment to recognize it—an arm, <em>John's</em> arm, wrapped around him. <em>Oh, dear,</em> Harold thinks. This could be a problem.</p><p>But it feels good, is the thing. John has moved close in the night, part of his body lined up against Harold's own, the rest curved around Bear, so close Harold is surprised he didn't stir when Harold woke. His arm is a warm, heavy weight across Harold's chest, protective and immensely comforting. His presence alone is comforting, but this close, it is magnified, settling Harold's pain-rattled nerves immensely.</p><p>What is the harm, Harold wonders, of letting John stay close? There will be no inconvenient displays of arousal from Harold's body, no indication that his feelings for John have progressed past the platonic. Why not remain in the sanctuary of John's embrace as he sleeps?</p><p>Quiet snores come from John's direction, sending puffs of hot breath over Harold's throat. Harold's heart flutters, the tiny, endearing noises punctuating John's breaths leaving him smiling. He's heard them before, but up close, they are even better. There's an innocence to the sound, and something soothing about knowing that John is finally at rest for a while. How could he stand to wake John when John is so peaceful? John is plagued by so many nightmares, but now has a chance to rest. How could he destroy such an opportunity? It would be unkind.</p><p>For a fleeting moment, Harold is tempted to initiate more contact, to offer comfort of his own—to roll over and touch John, to stroke his sleeping face, or perhaps rest a hand tenderly on John's arm. But, no, that would be a mistake, for many reasons—a terrible breach in professionalism at the very least, a ruination of any attempt at plausible deniability, a strain on his wounds, a <em>risk</em>. While he'd trust John with his life most of the time, it doesn't seem wise to wake an oft-traumatized ex-assassin and soldier, no matter how much his fingers itch to know if John's eyelashes are as soft as they look, or if the dark stubble on his cheeks is as prickly. He doesn't need to know what John's sharp cheekbones feel like against his skin, nor to show how much John means to him by touching him back.</p><p>Bear welcomes his tactile impulses, heaving a sigh and snuggling closer when Harold buries his hand in soft fur. The repetitive motion calms Harold's mind, and he drifts off again, content, protected, and near-comfortable with the two most important souls in his life sleeping nearby.</p><p>Things start to go more smoothly after that.</p><p>Most of his time is still spent dozing, often with John reading more of <em>The Hobbit</em> to him, his familiar rasp a more comforting lullaby than song—though he has a vague memory of John singing to him quite effectively while he was in the throes of fever. He's grown to love John's soft voice nearly as much as he loves the man himself, and would be content to listen to it forever. Hearing John use it so often is an incredible privilege.</p><p>Sometimes, they go outside to read, either on the balcony or in the back garden, and they huddle up together under warm blankets as the crisp air nips at their noses. Occasionally, they'll watch movies together, sticking to lighthearted, simple fare that won't upset either of them or strain Harold's belly with too much laughter.</p><p>Showers continue to be exercises in self-restraint, fortunately aided by his ornery old penis's lack of engagement. Having just enough energy to wash himself helps, distracting him from John's bare skin and beauty, but good lord. Him being so close and so nude and so kind is <em>frustrating</em>. But Nathan had a penchant for casual nudity as well, and an affinity for touch that was greater than John's, and Harold managed to restrain himself back then. He can—and does—handle this now.</p><p>Harold gets to use technology more often as well—intense coding is still a little more strenuous than his tired brain can handle, but sudoku and crossword puzzles are manageable. His speed is down, his mind dulled enough that he creates a new profile to avoid utterly trashing his old statistics, but it feels incredible to be using it again.</p><p>As expected, there are numerous messages waiting for him, the vast majority of them business-related or well-wishes from people who know he's had surgery. He prioritizes answering the ones from his and John's allies and friends, sending brief expressions of gratitude to most. Elias sent one shortly after the incident offering assistance that sends a chill down Harold's spine. He knows all too well what sort of help the man offers. A later one, days old, tells Harold that Everett's crew has been "handled," and, to Harold's shock, a weight he hadn't even realized he was carrying lifts from his shoulders.</p><p>He knows he should be appalled, and, on some level, he is. But he is also relieved. If Elias says a matter has been "handled," then it most assuredly has been. The man and his associates are quite thorough—so thorough that there is likely nothing more for Harold to do and no way to save Everett's men from Elias's reckoning. It is disturbingly liberating.</p><p>So Harold replies, <em>I will refrain from requesting further details,</em> pausing repeatedly to correct typos, and he moves on, ignoring Elias's near-immediate reply.</p><p>To his surprise, there are a large number of messages from Fusco, mostly humorous memes and videos, each accompanied by another of Fusco's many nicknames for him and some variant of <em>thought u could use a laugh.</em> It's the sort of thing he's seen Fusco do for friends who've been injured or who have fallen ill, something he only expected to see while perusing Fusco's phone records, not turned toward him.</p><p>Another message comes in as he's preparing a response, described as a dog video, but Harold recognizes the URL. "Oh, dear," he says. "I believe our friend Detective Fusco thinks he can Rickroll me."</p><p>John chuckles. "Rickrolling the guy who created social media?"</p><p>"Indeed." <em>That won't work, Detective,</em> Harold texts back, smiling. <em>I know that link.</em></p><p>Seconds later, he gets back a, <em>worth a shot,</em> and he laughs.</p><p>"You're not gonna tell me you came up with Rickrolling next, are you?" John teases.</p><p>"No, but I did manage to Rickroll everyone at IFT without getting caught back when it was first starting to gain popularity." John's eyebrows rise, and Harold grins as he sends Fusco a quick message of gratitude. To John, he adds, "Nathan strongly suspected, of course, but couldn't prove it—I think he thought it wasn't my style of prank anymore, or that I was too caught up in working on The Machine to even be aware of memes like that."</p><p>"And it's, uh...a little childish," John says, with a small grin.</p><p>"Says the man who bought me this." Harold holds up his stuffed bird—still unmarred by Bear, miraculously—and John laughs.</p><p>"Point taken."</p><p>Harold smiles, and sets the bird back down. "No, it was more than a little childish," he says. "Quite juvenile, I admit, terribly inappropriate, but also satisfying. I think people enjoyed it—Nathan certainly did."</p><p>"Was he a prankster?" John asks, and Harold is surprised to find that the impulse to lie, to suppress information simply doesn't come.</p><p>"Oh, yes. Very much so. It was a wonder we didn't get expelled from MIT." It hurts to think of Nathan—it always does—but these are the sort of thoughts that don't hurt quite as much. "He loved a good practical joke, and he was quite good at executing them."</p><p>John looks fascinated. "Did he have good help?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold replied. "Yes, he did."</p><p>It also doesn't hurt as much when John leaves the house to walk Bear again. This time, somehow, and the next time, and the next, Harold doesn't panic. Root being at large again makes him nervous, of course, but it takes time for a person to launch an attack, even with the aid of The Machine. Harold spends his time alone working his puzzles or catching up on the outside world, secure in the knowledge that John won't be gone for long and won't travel far, and will always have his earpiece in.</p><p>And will also always leave a handgun behind.</p><p>"You can come with us anytime," John reminds him, handing him a cup of tea—dragonwell this time. "You know we'd like to have you around."</p><p>"I do know, thank you," Harold says, wrapping his glove-clad hands carefully around the paper cup. John brought him fingerless gloves recently, deep plum purple, hand-knitted by a stranger and purchased on Etsy. While he's always associated these sorts of gloves with the younger crowd, he quite likes them. Very practical—they warm his fingers and hide the healing cuts, and provide a decent momentary distraction from the knot of dread in his chest. There is a substantial difference between going out in his own backyard and being on the streets. He'll have to make that move eventually, will have to leave his home, will even have to return to the safehouse one day, but for now...not yet.</p><p>"Perhaps another time," he says.</p>
<hr/><p>Mrs. Cooper drops by one day, arriving just as John is heading out, bearing a gift of some sort of green tea with lemongrass and mint. It's far from his comfort zone of unblended teas, but it's acceptable, and he drinks it with her as she gives him rather alarming advice on defending himself with a cane and updates him on her grandchildren's latest activities. He has to remind himself that Harold Wren is a luddite when she mentions that a granddaughter has taken a liking to programming, the morphine making his tongue slippery. To offer help, he concocts a story about a virtual acquaintance who's been helping teach him, and Mildred smiles, big and fond.</p><p>"You are so sweet, Harold," she says, touching the back of his hand. "Just like John. No wonder the two of you found each other."</p><p>"Oh." His cheeks go hot. He starts to correct her, saying, "John and I—" but cuts himself off. He's not sure what John has told her about their relationship, if John has played coy and kept it mysterious or if he has played into a mistaken belief that they are a couple.</p><p>Perhaps John has kept quiet, because Mildred's smile grows wider, and she says, "Oh, you don't have to hide it from me. You know my oldest is one of the gays, too, remember, and I accept him. Bought me a flag and went to the parade and everything this year."</p><p>"Right, yes, Lyle," Harold says, tightening his hands around his mug. "See, the thing is, John and I aren't...we're not together."</p><p>Mildred's face falls. "Oh," she says, then furrows her brow. "How? That man adores you!"</p><p>"I—"</p><p>"He talks about you, and the way he lights up, he could light up the whole city. Oh, you really should get together. A man like him...you don't want to let him go. Give him a chance, honey, or let him give you a chance—or take a chance, even! Let him woo you, or you woo him. You're an old-fashioned boy—court that lovely man before someone else snatches him up." She pauses. "Before <em>I</em> snatch him up; handsome fellow like that..."</p><p>Harold sighs. "I don't know..."</p><p>"Well, <em>I</em> do." Mildred takes a sip of her tea. "You've caught you a good one, kiddo. Don't let him get away."</p><p>John comes back soon after, face flushed with exertion, him and Bear both overflowing with the joy of a good run. He lets Bear off the leash, and Bear heads straight for Harold, tail wagging wildly. Bear is still careful with him, tempering his exuberance when demanding his hard-earned pettings, not making Harold bend painfully to give him affection. Such a good dog. Harold tells him as much as he scratches Bear's head and ruffles his ears, giving Bear praise in baby talk.</p><p>Softly, John chuckles, barely heard from across the room. Harold looks up, and finds John watching him with a smile, sweet and full of affection. <em>Could light up the whole city</em>, Harold thinks. He turns to Mildred, mildly shocked, and she gives him a knowing look. Is it possible, Harold wonders, that John has feelings for him, too? Surely not.</p><p>What happens if he makes a move—if he takes a chance—and he's wrong? Losing John to his own foolish actions, after everything they've been through together, would be devastating. Best not to take the risk, especially with so much recovering left to do. He'll let the relationship stay the way it is, and then go from there.</p><p>No matter how much it makes him ache, there are more important things to deal with these days than his love life. Like his recovery.</p><p>And like watching John cook. It's a simple pleasure—watching as John prepares the latest dish of broth that passes for one of Harold's meals. Sometimes, John will turn on music, and will do silly dances as he gathers ingredients, flashing grins toward the kitchen security camera every now and then. Other times, he simply works, showing every ingredient great care as he selects it, cleans it, slices it, prepares it to become part of their dinner. He often sneaks bites as he works—he seems to have an affinity for peppers and carrots, and a fondness for celery that Harold lacks.</p><p>John likes vegetables. John likes food. Harold already knew this, already knew which things John buys the most of at the grocery store, but seeing John take pleasure in anything is a delight.</p><p>"You don't mind me watching your performances, do you?" Harold asks, after watching John sing Aerosmith into a chicken drumstick microphone and dance across the floor on his socked feet, and John stares at him, brows furrowed.</p><p>"You're always watching me," John says, slowly, as though he accepted that as an obvious fact long ago. Perhaps he did. "Besides, I, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck. "I kind of do it for you? To maybe make you laugh a little bit. I know you're feeling really bad, and I just...thought I'd be silly for you."</p><p>"Oh." Harold's cheeks and insides go hot, <em>pleased</em>. "Well, then. I suppose I'll keep watching."</p><p>John beams, and Harold once again thinks of Mildred's words. "Good."</p><p>He decides not to watch the security feeds from the rest of John's stay. There's no need. He can trust John completely.</p><p>They start experimenting with bringing sencha back into his diet—small cups at first, little more than a shot glass-worth. Harold can't handle the first few at all, the once-soothing grassy scent instantly transporting him back to the safehouse kitchen, to the knife plunging into his belly and the teapot crashing to the floor. Eventually, he manages a sip, then another, but it always ends with him saying something like, "You know, I'm not as thirsty as I thought I was," and pushing the cup away. "My apologies, Mr. Reese, but thank you."</p><p><em>It's just tea,</em> he tells himself, as his stomach churns and his heart pounds. <em>It's just tea.</em></p><p>"You don't have to keep apologizing," John says. "It's okay. You'll get it down eventually."</p><p>Harold desperately hopes John is right.</p><p>Something that goes down much easier is his first serving of ice cream in weeks. When he sees the bowl with its tiny scoop of vanilla ice cream nestled inside instead of a serving of broth, he gasps quietly, and swears he can feel his own eyes light up.</p><p>"This is alright?" he asks, taking the cool bowl in hand, going hesitantly for the spoon. "I'm actually allowed to have this?"</p><p>"Yeah," John says, smiling. "Not too much, and if it hurts your stomach—" John gestures toward his own belly. "—it might be a little while before you can have it again, but Shaw thinks it should be okay. Other liquids, too—real soup, pudding, stuff like that...but only if this goes down okay."</p><p>"Then I suppose I'd better enjoy it, just in case."</p><p>He tells himself to go slowly and enjoy the small portion, but the first bite nearly undoes him. It's <em>perfect</em>—cold on his tongue, creamy and mildly sweet, fragrant with vanilla. With a tiny moan, he lets the ice cream melt a little before swallowing it down, rolls it around in his mouth to get a good taste of it, somehow manages to eat it slowly. He savors the next tiny bite, and the next one, and the rest, warmed by the simple joy of it all, everything else ignored in favor of his cold, sweet treat. He suspects even the cheapest soft serve would taste amazing, but this is <em>incredible</em>, good quality and very much needed.</p><p>When his spoon scrapes the bottom of the empty bowl, Harold lets out a disappointed whine, and John chuckles. Harold glances up, and finds John watching him, a soft smile on his lovely face. "What?" Harold demands, and John's smile grows.</p><p>"Nothing," John says. "Just like seeing you happy."</p><p>"Oh." Harold's heart flutters and flips. "Well. Thank you."</p><p>As they wait to see how his body handles the ice cream, John reads to him some more, sitting on the bed next to him, pressed up to his side. Resting his hands lightly on his abdomen, Harold leans into John's strength, his warmth, more than willing to blame weakness and the morphine if questioned. Deep down, he knows that he needs to start rebuilding his defenses, reconstructing the boundaries of formality between them. But his belly hurts, and he is tired. If one can't lean on someone then, when can they?</p><p>And John is...comfortable. Not only physically, but on a different, deeper level. It's been years since he has been with someone who is so <em>easy</em> to be around, someone he <em>wants</em> around. He could probably count the number of people who have made him feel this way on one hand. Only someone truly special can fit so neatly into his solitude.</p><p>He's always been content being by himself. Grace complimented that, was easy to while away the hours with in total blissful silence. Nathan knew his boundaries, knew when to push him socially and when to leave him be, but, in hindsight, Harold suspects Nathan likely would have driven him mad—in unpleasant ways—as a lover.</p><p>John is no Grace Hendricks. Like her, he is brilliant, complex, utterly fascinating and enchanting, but despite his physical strength, there is an incredible fragility to John Reese that Grace did not have. She was a wounded soul, yes, but that soul and her will were made of steel. John has deep, painful fissures running through his soul, oozing blood down the tarnished plane, ready to split and break once the strain grows too great. He is an eternal contradiction, tempestuous and soothing, steadying and exciting, strong and greatly breakable.</p><p>But he fits into a space similar to the one vacated by Grace. He is a challenge like Nathan, but he is a comfort, too, like her. It is easy to just coexist with John like he did with Grace, and to lean on him. Harold isn't sure he would have leaned on Grace or Nathan like this if he'd found himself in a similar predicament back then. He strongly suspects he wouldn't have.</p><p>Maybe that means he and John have a chance. It is entirely dependent on John, of course, and whether or not John is attracted to him is a mystery to him. He never has been any good at guessing that sort of thing. Even if not, he would like John to be more involved in his personal life, to deepen their friendship if it cannot be turned into a relationship.</p><p>But he would much rather have something more with John than friendship.</p>
<hr/><p>Luckily, the dairy doesn't cause any problems, and for dinner, he gets to have a small cup of potato soup—pureed for him, but not for John—and another dish of ice cream. John eats beside him, Bear begging at their feet, and it's so domestic that it takes Harold's breath away. He half-expects John to breach that last boundary between them and wrap an arm around his shoulders, or perhaps he could do so to John.</p><p>Just the thought makes it even harder to breathe.</p><p>Instead, he strikes up a conversation about the soup, saying, "This is quite good. Did you cook it?" though he already knows the answer.</p><p>"Thanks," John replies, sounding pleased. "Yeah, I, uh, I found it on the internet. The recipe, I mean. Not the soup."</p><p>"You never have told me how you learned to cook." Harold takes another bite and swallows it down. "Though, admittedly, I never have asked." Ever since John cooked for Sofia Campos, Harold's curiosity has been eating away at him. But questions like that always seemed so personal—especially since he already knew how much John's life had been touched by pain and loss. Now, it seems like it might be acceptable to ask.</p><p>"My dad taught me," John replies. Harold barely hides his surprise—he would've thought John's birth father wasn't around enough—until John clarifies, "My second dad. He thought everyone needed to know how to cook." John turns a teasing smile on him. "Judging by your kitchen, I'm guessing you never got that lesson."</p><p>"I'm in New York." Harold gestures expansively with his spoon. "I can have nearly any food I want brought to me with a single phone call. Though I do know enough to get by." He cooked after his father's mind declined to the point that he couldn't be trusted in the kitchen, throwing random ingredients into casserole dishes with cans of condensed cream soups and praying to a god he didn't believe in anymore but wasn't ready to admit wasn't there that the results would be edible. More often than not, the meals only barely qualified as such. They ate them anyway.</p><p>Eventually, he started raiding the local library's collection of cookbooks, but, "Cooking never has been something I cared for doing. There's always something else I could be doing instead."</p><p>"Surprised you don't have a personal chef," John says.</p><p>"Again, I live in New York," Harold says. "Any food I could possibly want is already at my disposal." Harold pauses. "Nathan had one, until the divorce. It always seemed to be a bit too...unnecessary to me, but he insisted she was worth every penny."</p><p><em>"As close to a homemade meal as guys like us can get,"</em> Nathan joked after hiring her, not long after they'd made their first millions, plural, but even that wasn't much of a selling point. It probably should've been. At that point, he already hadn't had a home-cooked meal that was worth getting excited about in nearly a decade—not since his last grandmother died when he was nine.</p><p>"I was never home enough to justify the expense," Harold adds. "Not until I met Grace." Grace didn't care much for cooking, either—not meals, anyway. Sweets were her forte. While he'd already been cultivating a bit of a middle aged belly when he met her, Grace's affinity for baked goods, candy, and Italian cuisine did his aging body no favors.</p><p>Judging by the rich bowl of soup, and the various meals they've shared, if he keeps John around, he's likely to end up in the same predicament. "You know, I'd sort of hoped I might lose a pound or two after weeks of not eating, but after this..." He pokes at his soup with his spoon.</p><p>"You need the calories," John says, a smile in his voice—which is true, Harold must admit. He's not, however, expecting John to add, "And the belly suits you, when it's not swollen."</p><p>Harold's eyes widen. "Oh," he says, stunned. "Well, thank you. I think."</p><p>"It's a compliment," John says, a sheepish note in his voice that Harold suspects no one else would notice.</p><p>"Yes, I thought it was." So, John likes his body—or, at the very least, doesn't find the size of it, the creeping influence of middle age and injury, off-putting. Huh. Harold fumbles to figure out something to say in response, his cheeks warm, and comes up with, "You know, I think the swelling has started going down a bit, actually?"</p><p>"Really?" John sounds pleased. "Good."</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies. "I'm feeling a bit less...taut, I think." Very carefully, he presses on a patch of his abdomen that doesn't hurt, and finds that it <em>is</em> softer. Excellent. Maybe he's finally starting to heal—physically, at least. "I don't think I'm in so much danger of popping anymore."</p><p>"I don't think Shaw would let that happen," John says. "You dying—it's not an option. For any of us."</p><p>The feeling of awkwardness fades, replaced with affection tightening and warming his chest. His eyes sting, and he bites his lip, resisting. Never would he have imagined that, one day, the people he recruited for this mission of his would grow to care about whether he lived or died, to care about him. He'd hoped they'd care about the numbers, yes, but him? That didn't matter, and still doesn't. They could easily have gotten away with giving him the barest minimum of care, could have dropped him off at the nearest emergency room after he was stabbed and left his fate in the hands of strangers, and eventually, if he'd survived, he would have gone back to the Library and picked up where they left off, no hard feelings.</p><p>But from the moment John caught him as he fell until now, he's been cared for, cared <em>about</em>, by John and by others. It's interesting, the contrast between this and the bombing. After the bombing, he was alone, wanted to be alone, <em>craved</em> the loneliness he thought he deserved, was drowning in so much rage and grief and pain that the slightest thing could have set him off like the semtex that ruined his life. He came so close to exploding—so, so close to doing something unforgivable in revenge. That he didn't kill poor terrified Alicia Corwin still astonishes him sometimes.</p><p>But the stabbing was something else entirely, and ever since, he has been surrounded by kindness—so much kindness that it takes his breath away.</p><p>"You've all gone above and beyond for me," Harold says, and lays a hand on John's thigh and gives it a squeeze. "I am...more grateful than words can say."</p><p>"Harold—"</p><p>"No. There are many things you could have done that would have simply kept me alive. Instead, you and Ms. Shaw and everyone else have gone out of your way to try and ensure that I not only survive, but flourish." He turns to John, ignoring the flare of pain it sends burning through his belly, and says, "Thank you."</p><p>John peers down into his bowl, contemplative, sad, then looks up at Harold. "We couldn't lose you. That means not just keeping you breathing—we need you alive. Want you alive. If you're not you..." He shrugs a shoulder. "You've done so much for us, for the world. Everyone's worth saving, but you? You've changed all our lives for the better. You're ours. And there is nothing that we—that I, anyway—wouldn't do for you."</p><p>Harold stares at him, breath caught in his aching throat. His heart feels like it might burst. These people he knows, these <em>friends</em> of his—John and Shaw, Bear, Carter and Fusco and Zoe Morgan, Dr. Madani, all of them, even the absurd Mr. Tao—he loves them so deeply and fiercely and suddenly that it hurts, on a level that is far larger than all his romantic feelings for John. He's suffered so much pain these past few weeks, and all of them have been trying so hard to spare him from it, to fix it, to make it easier for him to heal from and handle.</p><p>Wordlessly, John sets his bowl aside and fetches a napkin, then reaches for Harold's face. Harold's heart cracks. For a moment, he is grateful for his wounds, because if not for the pain he'd be grabbing John by his shirt and kissing the concern off his face. Instead, he lets his eyes fall closed as John wipes the hint of dampness away, and says, "Thank you—for everything."</p><p>"You're welcome," John whispers, from much closer than before, close enough that Harold can feel his breath. Harold opens his eyes, and John is right there, only inches away, the intensity of his gaze trapping the air in Harold's lungs.</p><p>Oh. Oh, Harold thinks this may answer the question of attraction.</p><p>Harold licks his lips, involuntarily, and John's attention shifts to his mouth, his beautiful eyes following the path of Harold's tongue. Anticipation builds in Harold's chest, tight and terrifying. He swallows hard, and says, softly, hesitantly, "John?"</p><p>"Yeah?" John's eyes meet his again, huge and pleading, and his fingers trail down Harold's cheek. Harold shivers. "I want to do something," John says, and Harold knows exactly what he wants, can read it in his eyes. John wants to kiss him. And the only answer Harold has for him is a resounding <em>yes</em>. "I don't know if you...but I want..."</p><p>The ringing of Harold's phone cuts through the tension between them, before John can collect himself. Odd. "I thought I had that thing on silent," Harold says, confused, as John withdraws, the spell broken. Since he's been ailing, he's been mostly unavailable, checking his messages only once a day, if that. His aliases have all been sidelined by various injuries and illnesses, and all communication about the numbers goes to John.</p><p>Dear god, this had better be greatly important.</p><p>"I'll get it." John gets up with enviable ease to fetch the phone, and Harold finishes up his tiny meal and lets the empty bowl sit in his lap. "Want me to take it, or—"</p><p>"No, I can handle it." Harold takes the proffered phone, and answers with a curt, "Yes?"</p><p>"Is this a bad time?"</p><p>Harold's stomach plummets, and he can feel the blood drain from his body in a sudden cold rush. Root, voice as saccharine sweet and capable of freezing the air in his lungs as ever.</p><p>"Harold?" John says, concerned.</p><p>If Harold could move, he would disconnect the call immediately, perhaps even fling the phone far away. But all he can manage is words, a sharp, tremulous, "What do you want, Ms. Groves?"</p><p>John tenses and reaches for the phone, but, though he's terrified, Harold is also curious. He holds up a hand, stalling John, and John backs down.</p><p>"Harry, Harry, Harry," Root says, sounding like she's shaking her head, and tsks at him. "Haven't I told you to call me Root?"</p><p>"You've told me a great many things, Ms. Groves," Harold replies, and repeats, "What do you want?"</p><p>Root, thank goodness, has little patience for social niceties like small talk. "The Machine gave me a number last night," she replies. "Arthur and Sameen and I have had quite the day—Vigilance, our ol' buddy Hersh, even Decima."</p><p>Arthur. Decima. Harold sits up, making his incisions twinge. Surely she doesn't mean...but, unless Arthur changed careers, he can think of only one Arthur that Decima might be interested in who Root might mention without elaboration: one he knows. "Arthur..."</p><p>"Your old friend Arthur Claypool." Harold lets out a loud breath, and John steps closer and rests a hand on Harold's shoulder. "He's an interesting guy. Good with computers like us, long career, worked on the kind of projects that caught Shaw's old boss's eye." Root pauses, then adds, with something disturbingly close to admiration, "Control—what a terrible woman. The things she wanted to do to me to get to Her...I almost admire her."</p><p>So many of their enemies all at once. Goodness. Harold hesitates a moment before asking, "Is everyone alright?"</p><p>"For the most part," she replies—remarkably evasive, that. "We averted the next AI apocalypse, and everyone's resting comfortably. Leon did get shot, though." Root follows that with a scornful, "And I thought <em>John</em> was useless."</p><p>"John is a generous, capable, incredible person," Harold retorts, sharply. "A far better one than you or I. I won't hear you speak of him that way."</p><p>"Aww." Root sounds <em>gleeful.</em> "That is so sweet. She tells me he's been taking very good care of you since you were hurt. How are you doing, by the way? She's been so worried about you. The messages She sent me...I almost thought She was gonna crash again when you got stabbed, and when your fever shot up..."</p><p>Harold's heart clenches. He's touched—truly. But he has to maintain his distance. "It's just a machine."</p><p>"You and I both know better than that. Gosh, She was so worried about Her father that I started to worry about you too—can you believe that?"</p><p>"No," Harold says, without hesitation.</p><p>"Well, I <em>did.</em> Then I tried to have Sameen give you a card, but she tore it up and threw it in my face. How rude!" Root lets out a dreamy laugh, sounding alarmingly like she is smitten with Shaw. "And no one will tell me where you live, so I can't give you one in person."</p><p>That's a relief. "I'm fairly certain it would not end well for you if you showed up here. And, speaking of withheld information, I get the feeling there is something you're not telling me about Arthur's case."</p><p>Root is silent for a moment, and much more serious than usual when she speaks again. "There is," she says. "I'm sorry, Harold. When we found Arthur, he was receiving treatment in a local hospital. He has a brain tumor. It's terminal."</p><p>Brain tumor. Terminal brain tumor. Harold groans, and John reaches for the phone again. Once more, Harold waves him off. "How long does he have?"</p><p>"Not long," Root replies, surprisingly gentle. "A few days, at the most—She says probably not even that. I'm sorry. Sameen's keeping him comfortable, and—none of us are any good at this kind of thing, and I know you're not feeling well, but She thinks he could use a visit from a friend, and I agree."</p><p>Another dose of fear seizes his insides. It's terrible—his friend is dying, and he's too scared to leave his house. "Ms. Groves, I—"</p><p>"He's not at the safehouse," Root says. "Not <em>that</em> safehouse. She says it's not a very long drive from where you are, and he's mentioned you a few times—you and Nathan. His memory is slipping. I think you should come, and I—I promise I won't be here if you do. I'm traveling. She says there are some interesting things about Vigilance that She wants me to dig into for Her."</p><p>Harold runs a hand over his face, distraught. He should go—he knows he should go. His friend is dying, and, goodness, he has so few of those left. Never would he have imagined that he'd be the last one of the three of them still standing. That was supposed to be Nathan, that should've been vibrant, lively Nathan, and if not Nathan, then Arthur, not <em>him</em>. God. He swallows hard, but the lump in his throat doesn't go away, and his voice comes out ragged when he says, "Send me the address, please."</p><p>"I will," she replies, sounding satisfied. "One more thing—you should know why everyone was so interested in getting a hold of your friend."</p><p>Harold has a few ideas why. "I'm guessing he knew something he shouldn't, or worked on something significant that they all wanted, or—"</p><p>"The second one," Root says. "He once worked on a program that predicts potential terrorist acts before they happen by analyzing surveillance data. Sound familiar?"</p><p>Harold exhales loudly. Oh, dear. Another Machine—and Arthur built it. "It does indeed."</p><p>"They shut down his work on Samaritan on February 25, 2005—the day after he brought it to life for 30 seconds," she says, and Harold's eyes widen. He'll never forget those days, how he celebrated with Nathan, sharing champagne and laughter, so proud of what he'd accomplished. "I'm sure you can guess why."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Sameen has the drives. We're leaving it up to you to decide what should be done with them. Destroying them is recommended. Decima came <em>this</em> close to getting their hands on them. If they do..."</p><p>"If they do, I can't imagine the results will be pleasant." He heaves a sigh. Another AI, a dying friend. He'll have to verify that Root isn't manipulating him first, and, if she isn't...good heavens, how many blows can one man take? "Send me that address, please."</p><p>"I will," she says. Then, much softer, she adds, "And Harold? I lied to you about something." Harold's heart lurches, fear taking hold of him again. If she's manipulating him... "When I said Her being upset made me worry about you. That's not..." She exhales loudly. "It's not why I worried."</p><p>Stunned, Harold barely manages an inquisitive, "Oh?"</p><p>"You didn't deserve that." Some of the fear inherent to speaking with Root unexpectedly lets go of him. Unaware, she continues. "I know our friendship has been...rocky..."</p><p>"I'm not sure 'friendship' is the correct term for our acquaintanceship," he interrupts.</p><p>"Right." She laughs quietly. "Someday, maybe. But I don't...I don't want bad things to happen to you, Harold. What Everett did—you didn't deserve that."</p><p>The knot in his throat tightens further.</p><p>"And I wish that She'd been able to see it coming so somebody could've stopped it. But She doesn't work like that, does She?"</p><p>"It was an impulsive act," Harold says, his voice catching on several of the words. "I'm afraid those are beyond The Machine's capabilities, even when they involve me." Especially when they involve him.</p><p>"I know," she says. "I do hope you get better soon, Harold, and I'm sorry about Arthur."</p><p>Harold draws in a shaky breath, and releases it slowly, composing himself before he speaks again. "Thank you—truly," he says. "And, while we're on the subject of gratitude, thank you for your assistance when Detective Carter was in danger."</p><p>"That was nothing," Root says, though she sounds pleased. "She's a remarkable woman, isn't she?" And, oh, now she sounds slightly flustered, like a schoolgirl with a crush—much like she does when speaking of Shaw. "I'm not much of a fan of cops, usually, but..."</p><p>"But that woman has far too much sense to get entangled with any of us any further than she already is," he says, sternly. "I highly recommend turning your attention elsewhere."</p><p>"True." Root laughs lightly. "What a shame."</p><p>They wrap up the conversation, and, once Root hangs up, Harold sits silent for a moment, dumbfounded. He hadn't expected such kindness from her, hadn't thought her capable of it—a mistake he should know better than to make. Is it foolish of him to wonder if, perhaps, they could be friends one day?</p><p>"Are you okay?" John asks, and Harold decides that, no, it isn't foolish. There was a time when he thought John would only be his employee, not someone he loves. People are always proving him wrong.</p><p>Before he can respond, his phone rings again. It's Shaw, who swears rather virulently about Root calling him, then confirms Root's story, giving him more details about Arthur's condition. She also tells him the address, at an apartment building whose location Harold recognizes—it's one that he owns.</p><p>His friend is there. His friend is dying.</p><p>Harold hangs up with a hollow, icy feeling in his gut, and grief tightening his chest. He clenches his eyes shut, and hands the phone off to John. Thankfully, John stays silent and close, not asking if he's okay or any other foolish questions with obvious answers.</p><p>Arthur is dying. Guilt joins the ice in his stomach, twisting and churning. His friend—how long has it been since he last spoke to Arthur? So many years, too many years. He last saw Arthur at Nathan's funeral, glimpses seen through hacked security and paparazzi cameras as he recovered from the surgery on his neck. Did he wonder why their dear friend Harold wasn't there, or perhaps overhear Will's phone conversation with him about his crippling "car accident?" Why did he never reach out to Arthur after leaving MIT?</p><p>"My friend is dying," Harold says. Saying the words out loud, acknowledging the reality of it all makes it even harder to breathe. "He has a brain tumor."</p><p>"I'm sorry," John says, nearly a whisper.</p><p>"I haven't seen him since college," Harold continues. "I should...I should do that, shouldn't I? I'm not—" His voice catches. "I'm not used to losing friends to natural causes. I don't quite know what to do here, I'm afraid."</p><p>"You go to him." John's hand settles on his shoulder again, warm and steadying. Suddenly, it's slightly easier to breathe. "You'll regret it for the rest of your life if you don't."</p><p>He will, won't he? "I need you to take me to see him, if you're willing." He tosses the blankets off his lap, and quickly finds himself lamenting his weakened, aching state. "Ms. Shaw says his mind is slipping, his memories, and I don't want him to die with only a stranger he cannot remember for company."</p><p>Patting Harold's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze, John says, "I'll go get you some clothes."</p><p>"Wait," Harold says, catching John by the sleeve of his sweater. "Do you think—" No, he knows what John's answer will be. "I think I need to shave first. Ms. Shaw says Arthur's memory is going fast. He's more likely to recognize me with a bare face."</p><p>"Good thinking," John says, then gives him a curious look.</p><p>"What?" Harold snaps, suddenly defensive.</p><p>"You've been through this before, haven't you? Someone you were close to."</p><p>Sometimes it's dizzying how well John can see right through him, right when he desperately hopes John won't. <em>Painful,</em> like a sucker punch to the pit of what makes him himself. "Mr. Reese..."</p><p>"You don't have to tell me," John says, still so gentle, and Harold clenches his eyes shut. "But, y'know, if you ever wanted to. I'd listen."</p><p>The answer to John's question builds up inside him as John helps him, holding the mirror for him as he shaves, steadying his quivering wrist as it shakes. There is no judgment in John's eyes when he opts for the disposable razor, when he needs help, only unwavering concern, and it's so easy it must surely be dangerous to say, "My father," while taking a break to rinse the razor in a bowl of water. "It was my father."</p><p>Harold starts to try to shave another spot, but that one revelation has his head spinning, his stomach squirming, has him feeling naked and vulnerable and sick. "Alzheimer's," he says, setting the razor on the table. "Early onset. He was...younger than I am now when he started showing signs. I thought it was just because my mother left, at first, then I realized that it was why she was gone." Well, partly why. He doesn't tell John that she wasn't wired for motherhood, or the life of a small town teacher and farmer's wife. "She thought he didn't care, that he was missing things on purpose, that he wasn't really forgetting them. I don't know if it ever crossed her mind that he might be ill."</p><p>"I'm sorry." John picks up the razor, and takes over where Harold left off, dragging the blade slowly down Harold's face.</p><p>"The last time—" Harold's voice catches. "The last time I saw him, he didn't...he didn't even recognize me, and it was..." It was one of the worst moments of his life. No time left with his father, no time for a proper goodbye, and his dad didn't even know him.</p><p>And now his friend might not remember him, either.</p><p>John looks at him with anguish in his shining eyes. "Thank you for telling me," he says, his voice rough. "I bet he was a good man—raising a kid like you."</p><p>Harold exhales loudly. "I never can figure out if he'd be proud of who I've become or devastated."</p><p>"Proud," John says, firmly. "A kind guy like you? He would've been proud."</p><p>The conversation fades out after that, Harold too caught up in heartache to respond. Memories of his father always tear the battered old organ in his chest to shreds. When combined with imminent grief and the ceaseless kindness of someone who means so much to him, it turns into a breathtaking physical ache, a cruel knot of pain in his chest. He can't find the words to express himself, so he doesn't try, letting John clear away the hair on his face instead, and wondering how to spare himself from more pain.</p><p>Soon, Harold is bare-faced, free of his IV, and dressed in warm, comfortable plaid flannel—"Like I wore back then," he explains, at John's questioning look. "I want to make it easier for him to recognize me." His soft jogging pants fit far more loosely on his hips than they should—he's definitely lost some weight, then—but they will do. Fashion doesn't matter all that much at the moment. A warm coat and a scarf, a throw pillow to cushion his abdomen, shoes and socks—those don't <em>matter</em>, exactly, but are necessary.</p><p>John takes him to the car in the wheelchair, Bear trotting along behind them. Neither of them says much—that's something he truly appreciates about John. John gives him space to grieve, doesn't demand conversation when all Harold feels like doing is trying to remember how to keep breathing through pain. If he needed words to help him bear the heavy ache in his heart, John would give them to him.</p><p>How long, he wonders, will it be until this same ache in his heart is for John?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night air hits like a physical blow, cold and merciless. Harold gasps, and John lays a hand high on his back. "Not much further now," John says, and he's right. It's a short distance from house to car.</p><p>But the world around them is big and wide, dark and menacing. Even with two fierce protectors nearby, the shadows of trees and buildings loom beneath the streetlights, every object hiding unseen threats that might be carrying sharp blades that tear apart tender organs, guns that blow people to bits, syringes and ropes and any number of things that could kill. Bare limbs that once seemed beautiful reach for him with gnarled branches, willing to become obstacles. The divisions and cracks in the sidewalk threaten to throw him from the chair down to his knees. It would be all too easy for them to keep John and Bear from...</p><p>A squeeze to his shoulder brings him back to himself. "Breathe," John says. "Harold. Breathe."</p><p>Harold nods, and forces himself to take a slow, deep breath. They're almost at the car. John is a dangerous man in his own right, and more than willing to give everything to protect even someone as helpless as him. He'll be fine.</p><p>Bear starts to growl, and Harold's hair stands on end. His muscles go tense, fear seizing his chest, making his heart pound. He freezes up in the chair, waiting for the click of John readying his gun, or the sound of a stranger's footsteps.</p><p>"Bear, <em>staan</em>," John says, and Bear stops. "I see it, too. It's just a cat. It's nothing."</p><p>Sure enough, a cat shoots out of the darkness nearby, just a small, feline-shaped blur, and Harold exhales.</p><p>"Now, I know you like to make new friends," John continues, "but I think stealing a cat for Harold would be pushing our luck."</p><p>"I don't mind cats," Harold says, his voice small and unsteady. He clears his throat and repeats himself, saying, "I don't mind cats. I just...never found a place in my life for one, and Nathan was terribly allergic."</p><p>"Oh?" They reach the car, and John lets Bear into the back seat, then helps Harold inside, while Harold continues talking, words broken up with occasional groans and grunts of pain.</p><p>"I quite like them, actually, but they made—ow—they made Nathan very sick. So I've never had one. I told Grace that <em>I</em> was the one who was terribly allergic." He adjusts his protective pillow, and his seatbelt around it, guilt taking hold of him once more. "Another 'harmless' lie I told her. God knows how many of those I spewed out over the years."</p><p>"I think she'd forgive you," John says, crouching down next to him, "if you ever went back. I think she'd forgive you."</p><p>"Unfortunately," Harold says. "She always has been the forgiving sort. But I don't think a reunion between the two of us is likely anytime soon." And, even if it was, these days his heart belongs to another, to the man gently rearranging his seatbelt and pillow, then gently resting his hand on Harold's belly, just for a fleeting, comforting moment. "I've accepted that."</p><p>"I'm sorry," John says. "I wish you could. You deserve to be happy."</p><p>"As do you," Harold says, thinking, <em>Maybe we could make each other happy instead. You're very good at making me happy.</em> But he can't say that, not even after John nearly kissed him—he could be mistaken about John's intentions, after all. "You deserve someone—or even something—that brings you peace. I hope you find that someday."</p><p>John ducks his head and whispers, "Thanks," and stands up. His voice is rougher than usual when he speaks again. "Let's, uh, let's get going."</p><p>Harold nods, and John closes the door. Very quickly, John gets the wheelchair stowed away, and soon they are on the road, sharing silence once again. In the quiet, Harold thinks, too much and too hard, his mind bouncing back and forth from Arthur to Nathan to Grace, to Kyle Everett and his knife, to the lovely man sitting beside him.</p><p>So many things to think about, most of them sources of pain. For a moment, he thinks of turning on the radio, putting on a CD that will drown out his mind, but the thought of opera takes him back to that painful ride home after he was wounded, making him queasy. No, that won't do. Perhaps if John chooses the music...</p><p>"Would you mind putting on some music?" he asks. "Your choice this time."</p><p>"Really?" Their eyes meet in the rear-view mirror, John's wide with surprise. "You sure?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold replies.</p><p>He's half-expecting John to choose something he thinks Harold will like, but after switching through several stations, John settles on a station playing the tail end of a Stones song and sits back in his seat. Harold watches him through the mirror, John's reflection primed to change channels in an instant, but when the Rolling Stones turn to AC/DC without complaint from Harold—despite it not being to his tastes—John relaxes.</p><p>Songs change, some familiar old friends, others long-standing annoyances, but he's fine with even the ones he doesn't like. Irritation is easier to deal with than grief, and none of them are bad songs, really. John makes a few of the one's he's long hated pleasant, even, absently humming along with Journey's horrendously overplayed "Don't Stop Believin'," and others, once he seems to realize Harold isn't bothered.</p><p>Harold even catches himself singing along once, halfway through "We're Not Gonna Take It," and abruptly clamps his mouth shut. John, of course, noticed.</p><p>"So you <em>do</em> listen to stuff without screaming cats," John teases, without malice, and Harold huffs.</p><p>"You've seen my record collection. You know I do."</p><p>"But I don't know which ones you listen to, and which ones you just have," John says. "The Motown, the soul—I can see that. Queen, Adele—you like talent, good voices. Glam rock—you went to college in the 80's. Stuff from the 50's—your parents listened to that stuff. You get nostalgic every now and then. Willie Nelson, though? Country?"</p><p>Oh. Those, the battered old records at the back of his collection, that he never touches. "Nathan," he explains. "Nathan grew up in Texas. Will gave me his records. I don't listen to them." Too painful.</p><p>"You miss him."</p><p>It isn't a question, but Harold replies anyway, "Every day."</p><p>John is silent for a while after that, and Harold thinks the subject is closed, until John says, "Jess liked 90's pop stuff. Some of the most annoying crap you've ever heard, but, uh...she <em>loved</em> it. It's hard to hear that stuff."</p><p>"I know the feeling. And even with the living—some of the artists Grace liked, a lot of men and women with acoustic guitars. I hear them, and everything comes rushing back." He wonders what musical choices of John's will haunt him someday. Will it be John singing along with Journey, or John criticizing Pavarotti? Or will his own choices haunt John someday—will he hear Twisted Sister one day and ache deeply, or something else? Will the smell of sencha tea set him off like it does Harold these days? Who will go first, or will they go out together? If the universe were kind, it would give them the latter.</p><p>But the universe is not kind, and another of his friends is already dying. "Arthur and I...we were so much alike. We both liked classical music, we discovered opera together—drove poor Nathan out of his mind with it." The last time he saw Arthur, he remembers now, he was at the opera with Grace. He stayed hidden, not wanting Arthur to recognize him and shatter the illusion of Harold Martin, and the pang of regret is so sharp and strong it feels like another knife to the guts.</p><p>"Sounds like Nathan and I would've got along great," John says.</p><p>"Oh, you would've been excellent friends," Harold says. "He would've been delighted by you. It's truly a shame that the two of you never got to meet." Sometimes he wonders if Nathan would have eventually crossed paths with John, had Nathan survived, and if Nathan would've recognized the potential in John, the way he himself did when he watched John spare Daniel Casey's life. Or would Nathan have acted when Jessica's number came up a few weeks before her death—would he have tried to recruit her CIA agent ex for his cause in hopes of saving the both of them?</p><p>So many things Harold will never know.</p><p>"I think I would've liked him," John says. "He seems like he was a great guy."</p><p>"He was," Harold says. "He was truly exceptional." <em>As are you,</em> Harold thinks. He doesn't plan to say it aloud, but then he thinks of Arthur, of Nathan, of too many lost chances and near-death-experiences. "As are you. I truly am grateful to have you in my life, John."</p><p>John responds with silence at first. It stretches between them through nearly half of a song. When John finally speaks, he sounds choked up, his, "Thank you," scratchier than usual.</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>The rest of the ride is quiet, save for the radio. They arrive at the apartment building where Arthur is spending his last days or hours, and John parks the car. Up this close to Arthur and his fate, nerves start rattling around in Harold's stomach again, a heavy, vigorous churning that pins him to his seat. "I need a moment, please," he tells John, when John moves to help him from the car, his throat closing up on the last word.</p><p>Last word. Funny the number of meanings that combination of two little words has. Soon, Arthur will say his last words, if he hasn't already. Will Harold be the one to hear them, or will Shaw? Will anyone?</p><p>Is he ready to watch another friend die?</p><p>But the longer he sits there, the more it becomes clear that, "I'm running out of time, aren't I?"</p><p>Softly, John replies, "Yes."</p><p>Harold nods, biting his lip, and unbuckles his seatbelt. "I'm not sure that I am...prepared to weather another storm right now."</p><p>"I'll help you," John says. "I'll...always hold your umbrella for you." He wraps a hand loosely around Harold's arm. "C'mon. It's not gonna be alright, but you're not gonna be alone with it."</p><p>On the way inside, Harold feels vaguely like he is headed to his own death, rather than off to potentially witness one. He's always heard dying is easier than living, in the end, and that certainly does seem to be true at times. The simplicity of nonexistence versus the pain of living on. Oh, he never has wanted to die—not really. His survival instinct has always been strong, and, as he once told John, simplicity isn't his strong suit.</p><p>But there are moments when carrying on seems impossible. Still, he keeps going, and will continue to do so, even when sometimes it feels comparable to death.</p><p>And this isn't about him. His friend is the one dying. What right does he have to be so selfish in this moment? To turn all the focus on himself, even if only in his own head? Arthur deserves better than his maudlin self-centeredness. So when John asks if he's ready to head inside, he lies and says that he is, and the two of them and Bear enter the apartment together.</p><p>Everything after entering goes too fast—the removal of jackets, the greetings and updates. The ever-practical Sameen Shaw is no good for delaying the inevitable. There is no small talk, no idle chatter, none of it.</p><p>Nor does she sugarcoat Arthur's condition. "He's dying. Could be tonight, could be tomorrow, could be a while," she tells them. "In and out of consciousness, in and out of lucidity. I told him his old buddy Harold was coming over, and he was excited, but it's a crapshoot if he'll even recognize you."</p><p>Harold thinks back to the last time he saw his father, how him asking, <em>"Do I know you, young man?"</em> with no recognition in his eyes hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before in his life. His father had been the smartest person he'd ever met at one point, had loved him more than anyone else in the world, and he would still give <em>everything</em> for a different final moment with him.</p><p>"I'd like to see him anyway, please, Ms. Shaw," he says, softly.</p><p>"Yeah, I figured you would," she says. "C'mon."</p><p>As they head toward Arthur's room, Shaw leading the way, John asks, "How's Leon? Harold said something about him getting shot."</p><p>Oh, yes, Mr. Tao—shot in the thigh but supposedly fine. Harold hasn't even thought about him.</p><p>"Heavily sedated," Shaw replies, more smug than concerned. It's worrisome. Surely she didn't... "He was annoying me."</p><p>She did. Harold sighs. "I don't know what else I was expecting from you, Ms. Shaw." And, truth be told, he's not entirely sure he wouldn't do the exact same thing. But still... "I was under the impression that Mr. Tao's injuries weren't life threatening."</p><p>"Oh, they weren't," she says. "But he wouldn't shut up. Nice dose of the good stuff did the trick."</p><p>Harold rolls his eyes.</p><p>"Told him when you got stabbed in the gut, we didn't hear a peep out of you," she continues. Absolutely false. "And he <em>still</em> kept whining about how much his leg hurt. Ugh. Baby."</p><p>"Sounds about right," John says. "And who hasn't wanted to knock Leon out a time or two?"</p><p>With far too much zeal, Shaw replies, "Exactly."</p><p>"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear this conversation," Harold says, "and assure myself that Mr. Tao is simply sleeping through the pain."</p><p>"Mm, whatever helps you sleep at night," Shaw says, unconcerned.</p><p>"Though I do wonder how Mr. Tao is supposed to help with the numbers if he's kept under sedation," Harold continues, pointedly.</p><p>"Leon on drugs might be an improvement," John teases.</p><p>Harold heaves another sigh. Goodness, the moral flexibility of these two is <em>exasperating</em>. "No, you may not keep Mr. Tao sedated for any longer than is medically necessary, no matter how tempting it may be. I'm sorry."</p><p>Shaw makes a rude noise, while John says, "Okay, Finch. But—"</p><p>"No, Mr. Reese." Harold holds up a hand. "No. You know what I've said about reaching for a higher standard in our work? This applies here."</p><p>It's a relief to be talking about someone like Leon, but far too soon, they reach the door to Arthur's room. "He's in here," Shaw says, hand on the doorknob, and she doesn't have to add, "Claypool is," but she does, and dread descends over him like a shroud. "I checked up on him right before you guys got here, and he was in and out of consciousness, but I don't know what you're gonna find when you go in."</p><p>Harold nods. "There are good moments and bad with this sort of thing."</p><p>Shaw aims an inscrutable look at John, and Harold wonders if she too has picked up on his experience with this sort of illness with that comment. If she has, she doesn't ask him, and if she planned to, Harold doesn't give her a chance, saying, "Help me up, one of you, please," and bracing himself for the unpleasant ordeal of standing. "I fear the wheelchair might distress my friend."</p><p>John and Shaw both step in, and Shaw asks, "Where's your IV?" as soon as she takes hold of his arm.</p><p>"I'll put it back in when we get out of here," John says.</p><p>"I thought it could also upset Arthur." Harold groans as they help him to his feet, pain lancing across his abdomen, and adds, "So much for not hearing a peep out of me after I was stabbed." Once he can, he tears his hand away from Shaw, leaning into John for support, and cradles his belly as he gathers his bearings.</p><p>"Still not as annoying as Leon," Shaw says, and opens the door. "Root put a chair in there for you." A frisson of fear laced with dissonance goes through Harold at the mention of Root's name, the contrast of his usual terror and her newfound kindness deeply unsettling. "Just, uh, give me a yell if things go sideways, okay?"</p><p>She heads off, slipping into another room, while John asks, "Want me to help you inside?"</p><p>"No," Harold replies, and takes an unsteady step forward, stabilizing himself on the doorframe. He turns and gives John a sad smile, meant to be reassuring. "This is something I need to do on my own, I'm afraid."</p><p>John nods, his expression, Harold suspects, likely matching his own. "Okay. I'll be around if you need me, though, like always."</p><p>"Always." Harold feels his own smile brighten, just a fraction. "I know." He squeezes John's hand, and quickly lets go. "Thank you."</p>
<hr/><p>He gets to talk to Arthur for over an hour before Arthur's eyes fall shut and stay that way. They catch up, Arthur telling him about his late wife and Samaritan in disjointed bits and pieces, interrupted by stray memories of work. Harold tells him about The Machine, Grace, even John, with a smile that feels almost shy as he admits, "I've fallen rather in love with him, I admit."</p><p>Arthur laughs with delight. "Lucky, lucky! There's no greater feeling, is there? I thought for sure it was overrated until I met my Diane. To be honest, I still think they hype it up a little too much. But, hey—maybe something will actually happen with this guy! Your mooning over Nathan's getting to be a bit much."</p><p>Harold's face flushes. Oh, dear—how much did he notice back at MIT? How much did <em>Nathan</em> notice? Or did Arthur put the pieces together after experiencing romance of his own? "Nathan's just a friend," Harold insists, his use of present tense guided by Arthur's, and Arthur scoffs.</p><p>"You have a thing for Nathan," Arthur says. "A crush on him. I haven't said anything because <em>you</em> haven't said anything, but I've noticed. Everyone's noticed. I don't think he's figured it out, though. He's smart, but he's kind of dumb. But maybe...maybe your guy John has figured it out. Maybe he knows you like him. Maybe he likes you back. You have to tell him, though. It doesn't work if you don't tell 'em—you, you have to tell 'em."</p><p>Before Harold can assure him he will, Arthur says, "I'm really tired, Harold," voice heavy, and Harold's heart constricts.</p><p>"I know," he says, and tugs the blanket up high on Arthur's chest, dismissing the pain of movement in his own body as irrelevant. It's almost time for his medication—he can feel it. But he doesn't particularly care. "Why don't you rest?"</p><p>"Rest," Arthur repeats, with a tiny chuckle. "Trying to get rid of me, Harry? You know what'll happen if I rest."</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, and at Arthur's weak yet booming laughter, clarifies, "I understand what's coming, and I don't want you to leave. But I don't want you to keep fighting if you don't feel like it, either." He pauses. "Are you frightened?"</p><p>"No," Arthur says, without hesitation, his smile lingering, and he reaches out and pats Harold's arm. "Not anymore."</p><p>"Good." Without thinking, Harold captures his hand—it's so warm, so full of life that it's hard to believe what's coming is imminent. If Arthur is lying, he wants him to have the comfort. "I'll stay with you, until the end."</p><p>"Take care of Samaritan for me, would you, Harold?" Arthur asks, wrapping his fingers around Harold's. "I don't want my child falling into the wrong hands. I don't think the government's hands are the right ones."</p><p>"Nor do I," Harold agrees. He doesn't have the heart to tell Arthur that he intends to destroy the drives as soon as he can. While it will be a shame to destroy his friend's greatest work, keeping it around is too much of a risk. "And I will take good care of Samaritan for you. I promise."</p><p>Arthur pats him again, and closes his eyes. "You always have been a good friend, Harold. Tell Nathan I said hi, and, uh, tell that boy of yours that you love him."</p><p>Arthur drifts off—whether his sleep will be permanent remains to be seen—and Harold says, in the ensuing silence, "I think you're more likely to be able to say hello to Nathan than I am, if we're both wrong about the afterlife."</p><p>He doesn't know how long he sits still, blankly staring at Arthur's heart monitor. It tells him nothing—Arthur's heart is healthy, or, at least, healthier than his brain. It's not the organ that is failing. But he has gotten better at reading them since he got into his new profession, since he found himself attached to one of his own once again recently. The rhythm of the green lines across the dark screen is almost hypnotic.</p><p>It doesn't hold his mind's attention for long. He always has been far too good at thinking—well, overthinking, mostly. His thoughts drift with predictable inevitability toward his father, Nathan, his greatest regrets. Neither had the privilege of a loved one holding their hand at the end. He hopes neither of them regained awareness in their final moments, that his father stayed blissfully oblivious to the absence of his long-gone wife and his fugitive son, that Nathan lost consciousness at the moment of the blast and didn't feel a thing after. That neither of them knew they were alone.</p><p>He hopes he <em>is</em> alone, at the end. It's what he deserves, and he does not want someone like John to suffer by witnessing his death. At the same time, he hopes he isn't. If not for the effect on John, going out with a friend desperately trying to save him wouldn't have been a bad way to go. A little less pain would be nice next time, but some comforting company would make up for that, he thinks.</p><p>His stomach is starting to hurt again. He runs his free hand gently over his belly, but it doesn't calm the soreness—just provides a little comfort. He's not the one who needs attention right now anyway. This is Arthur's moment, not his. This is Arthur's ending.</p><p>After a while, John quietly slips into the room, carrying a plastic cup of water and a lightly rattling bottle. "Pain med time," he says, barely above a whisper, and looks at Arthur. "Is he asleep?"</p><p>"I don't know," Harold replies, equally quiet. "He hasn't stirred in a long time, but I hesitate to try to wake him." If Arthur is asleep, Harold wants to let him sleep. If he has slipped into a coma...Harold's not sure he wants to know that.</p><p>He also doesn't want to be knocked out himself when Arthur passes on. "How strong are those?"</p><p>"Less than what you've been getting, stronger than the amount you took when Carter took down HR," John replies. "You'll still be hurting, but it'll take a little more than just the edge off."</p><p>Harold nods and holds out his hand, and John shakes a small pill into his palm, letting Harold see the label. For once, he doesn't bother to read it, popping the pill into his mouth and chasing it down with a sip of water. He trusts John. With anyone else, he'd scrutinize it closely, might even look up the pill on the internet. Not with John. Instead, he thanks John, and keeps the cup.</p><p>"Do you want me to have Shaw come in and check up on him?" John asks.</p><p>"Honestly?" Harold sighs into his cup. "I don't know."</p><p>"Yeah," John says. He's probably been here before, in the military, Harold realizes, has likely sat at the bedside of friends as they've taken their final breaths himself. "Anything I can do to help you? Do you want me to let Bear in, maybe?"</p><p>"Arthur always did like dogs," Harold says. And Bear is good with the sick. "Yes, please."</p><p>"Okay. I'll go see if Shaw's ready to let him go yet."</p><p>By the time John comes back, Bear and Shaw following closely behind him, Harold has finished his water. He turns down John's offer of another, trading holding the cup for burying his fingers in Bear's warm, grounding fur as he watches Shaw check on Arthur.</p><p>Arthur doesn't stir. Shaw's announcement that, "He's in a coma," is unnecessary, but Harold appreciates the confirmation nonetheless. Her, "I'm sorry, Harold," sounds awkward coming from her mouth, but he is grateful for that, too. "Can't tell you how much longer it'll be, or how rough it'll be, though."</p><p>"I understand," Harold replies, and Bear lays his head on Harold's lap. "I told him I'd be there at the end, and I intend to keep my word. Now, leave us be, please. I'll let you know if anything changes."</p><p>At John's parting glance on the way out, Harold gets an idea. He pulls out his phone, and, his hands shaking, finds his copy of <em>The Hobbit.</em> Then, he starts to read.</p><p>He stops only when John comes back with another cup of water for him and to take Bear away, then picks back up again, pausing only to sip. Arthur doesn't move. He reads and reads and reads, until even water doesn't help the ache in his throat, and Arthur doesn't move. He keeps going, even when John stops by with a refill, and Arthur doesn't move.</p><p>Hours later, Arthur's heart stops moving, too, the monitor letting out a shrill whine. Harold keeps reading, not wanting to believe, until Shaw comes in again and confirms what he already knows.</p><p>With a nod, Harold closes the program, and slips his phone back into his pocket. "I trust you know how to handle the rest of this, Ms. Shaw?"</p><p>"Yeah," she says, and pulls Arthur's sheets over his head, just as it starts to dawn on Harold how still his friend is, how quickly the flush of life is fading away. "I called Madani. He said he'll help us deal with this—just let him know."</p><p>"Good." Harold sags in his chair, resting his hands on his sore belly, weak satisfaction the closest he feels to any sort of positive emotion. He <em>aches</em>, on a level far deeper than the physical, weary in a way he knows sleep won't cure, body and soul tired and hurting. His back has gone stiff, his bad hip tetchy and ready for discomfort. "I should get up, I think," he says, thinking out loud, making no move to stand. His eyes burn, his throat feels tight, his body is made of lead. Grief is setting in.</p><p>He needs to be alone.</p><p>"Want me to go get Reese?" Shaw asks, just as Harold finally makes himself try to get to his feet.</p><p>"No," he says, strained, caught in the middle of a groan of effort. The balcony—though it will certainly be cold—beckons. If no one has touched his things, a chair should be out there waiting for him in the dark. "I need—" He sways on his feet, and catches himself on the railing on Arthur's bed. "—time. I need time."</p><p>Though she looks poised to act, Shaw makes no move to assist him as he makes his way unsteadily outside, nor to stop him, and for that, he is grateful. The cold nearly knocks him backward when he slides the door open, but he makes it out, quickly finding his chair right where he left it. He sinks down, biting his lip through a renewed wave of pain, and settles on the chilly metal seat with a sigh.</p><p>It's possible, he thinks, as the cold bites at his skin, that he has made an error in judgment by going outside. Too late now. And, knowing John, as soon as he learns Harold is brooding on the balcony instead of inside the warm apartment, he will show up with a blanket and a hot beverage.</p><p>Harold should turn him down, no matter how welcome they might be. It's time to start rebuilding those boundaries. His friend is gone. Both of his most important old friends are gone. He needs to distance himself before he loses John, too, because it <em>will</em> break him.</p><p>No. No, he thinks he may already be broken. Too much of him has been shattered beyond repair. How much can one man take?</p><p>Another loss will undo him. Best to render it irrelevant before it can crush him into pieces. It will hurt, but it's a necessary hurt, needed to prevent future devastation.</p><p>John—Mr. Reese—wanted to teach him self-defense. This <em>is</em> his self-defense.</p><p>He's turned his attention to the city below by the time John—Reese—John—oh, he cannot think of him as anything but John now—steps outside with a mug in his hand and a blanket bundled under his arm.</p><p>"Brought you some cocoa," John says, and Harold hesitates to take it. He can feel the blissful warmth radiating from the cup, beckoning cold hands closer, and his resolve wavers. "It's not very good—just, you know, the powder kind; made it with water—but I thought that might be easier on your stomach. Sorry."</p><p>"You're always so considerate," Harold says, accepting the drink. That's exactly the problem. John is so generous, so kind—especially to him. John, the man who thinks of himself as pure darkness, is such a beacon of light that it's near-blinding. Harold doesn't know how he can ever let the man go. But let him go he must, soon.</p><p>John tucks the blanket around him as he takes the first drink. As promised, it is not good cocoa—cloying and weak, tasting only of the vaguest suggestion of chocolate. But it is warm, and it's distracting, so Harold drinks it anyway as he looks back at the noisy, bustling world below.</p><p>"It's interesting how, even when something terrible happens to one person, the world keeps spinning along, isn't it?"</p><p>"Something bad's always happening to someone," John replies, straightening up again.</p><p>"Indeed." Harold watches John head over to the edge of the balcony, and he heaves a sigh. "I suppose they've come to take Arthur away, haven't they?"</p><p>"Yeah," John says. "I'm sorry, Harold—really. If there's anything I can do..."</p><p><em>You can go far away and find a peaceful life and never return to hurt me,</em> Harold thinks. <em>You can come over here and hold me and never let me go.</em> "I'll let you know, thank you. But I've been thinking..." He trails off, trying to find the right words, to formulate the response that will upset John the least.</p><p>"Oh?" John says.</p><p>"Of what this means for the future—our future. Of what it means for the numbers. I think..." Harold pauses for a deep, difficult breath. "I think it's time for me to find another employee." John turns to him sharply, eyes wide with fear. "Help you start your own team somewhere else, perhaps." Just saying it aloud makes him feel ill, but it's made even worse by the pain on John's face. But he <em>hurts,</em> a physical ache filling his chest, wrenching and sickening and far louder than the rest of his pains. "Too many people. I have lost too many people."</p><p>"You haven't lost me yet."</p><p>"Give it time. I'll lose you, or you'll lose me, and it will be terrible. It's inevitable—somebody always dies first, or leaves first. That's how it works. That's how it <em>always</em> works."</p><p>"Harold..."</p><p>"With your skills," Harold says, "you should have no trouble leading a team of your own. I'll help you find a hacker—perhaps Mr. Pierce will be willing to—"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"—help you, or I'm sure we can find someone better—"</p><p>"No, I don't...Harold."</p><p>"—to assist you. John, Mr. Reese, please."</p><p>"Harold, you're grieving," John says. "It's not the right time to make decisions like this."</p><p>"Well, when is?" Harold gestures wildly, nearly spilling his drink. "Do you really think I started working the numbers when I was in a sound, rational state of mind? Would anyone?"</p><p>"Harold..."</p><p>"Do you think I've stopped grieving over Nathan? That I have stopped letting his death make my decisions for me?" Oh, he is getting nowhere, isn't he—the curse of quarreling with, falling in love with someone as stubborn as him. Abruptly running out of steam, defeated, Harold clenches his eyes shut. "Please don't make this harder than it needs to be, John. Please."</p><p>"It doesn't have to be hard at all." John's hand lands gently on his shoulder, warm and heavy and big. "Not this. Not us. Not ever. You're going through hell right now—you know it and I know it. And you don't have to go through it alone. You don't have to walk away from me. Not like you did Grace."</p><p>"I do, though." He opens his eyes and looks up at John, desperately, <em>desperately</em> wishing for John to understand. "Please," he whispers. "Please. I can't..." His voice catches. "I can't keep going through this. I <em>can't</em>."</p><p>"And you think it'll be easier to hear about our deaths secondhand." John strokes Harold's shoulder, his arm, so tenderly Harold fears it might break him. Harold averts his eyes. "Or is it just me you want to run off?"</p><p>"John, <em>please.</em> Please don't make this difficult."</p><p>"I'm trying to protect you, Finch. That's what I do, and you know it."</p><p>"Then leave." Harold makes himself meet John's eyes in the dimness. Inside Arthur's room, he can hear the commotion increasing, people coming to take his friend—his <em>friend</em>—away to be buried, and suddenly he can't stand to be evasive anymore. "Please, do as I ask and <em>go</em>."</p><p>"Harold..."</p><p>"I'm not firing you. I'm not taking the numbers from you—like I said, I will help you establish a team of your own. You're exceptional at what we do, what you do. You'd be excellent at it. I just...I need you to <em>go</em>." He swallows hard. "You can even stay in New York if you'd like, you could still see Bear and Ms. Shaw, still work with our detectives. But I can't be close to you. Not anymore."</p><p>John's hand goes still, and his eyes shine, and something in Harold's chest <em>twists</em>. He's breaking John's heart—he knows he is. If John is in even half as much pain as Harold, he's in utter agony. But it must be done. Self-defense. This is self-defense. Even if it feels a lot more like self-sabotage.</p><p>"I'm afraid this is where our partnership ends, Mr. Reese." It sounds permanent, final. The words taste sour in his mouth. John looks like he just got punched in the gut. "Thank you for all that you've done for me." He sets his cup on a nearby table. "I truly am grateful. But now I need you to stop."</p><p>Slow and careful, Harold pushes himself up to his feet, and nearly falls right back down. John doesn't hesitate to catch him, steadying him with big, gentle hands that nearly erase all the negligible progress Harold has made in distancing the two of them. John's hands feel so good on his body, bracketing his chest, and Harold is so tempted to step toward him, into arms that would certainly welcome him, that his eyes start to water.</p><p>Or, no. Maybe they're watering for other reasons.</p><p>Grief is such a terrible burden to bear. He tries to blink back the tears, but they won't stop, the slow trickle down his face turning cold as the knot of ice in his heart in the chill night air. His heart hurts. His body hurts. His friend is <em>dead</em>—brilliant, talented, incredible Arthur. He's made so many mistakes regarding Arthur that his breath hitches when he thinks of them, threatening to become a sob. He should have reconnected with Arthur years ago, should have agreed with Nathan about the Irrelevant List, the numbers, should have done so many things...</p><p>And now he's driven away another friend, has driven away the man he loves, or will soon. Surely John won't stick around after this, won't hold him like he's something precious again, won't look at him with such fondness and concern and care after this...</p><p>"It's okay," John says, and pulls Harold into his arms. God, how can he do such a thing, after Harold told him it was time to end their partnership? How can he be so kind, so generous? "Go ahead. You lost a friend. You nearly lost your life. You're allowed to cry."</p><p>He should be pushing John away, but he can't bring himself to do it, leaning his face against John's. Perhaps one last time won't hurt. He breathes in the comforting smell of John, savoring it, letting it soothe him. Instead of encouraging his tears to fall freely, it eases them. As long as John is close, everything is okay. John is his sanctuary.</p><p>God, how is he supposed to change that?</p><p>Change it he must, though. "I can make my own way home."</p><p>"No," John says firmly, but his hold stays gentle. "You just lost someone. Don't let that make your decisions for you. You'll regret it, and you know it."</p><p>Harold pretends to ignore him. "You're welcome to stay another night. I'll seek out someone discreet to take over the rest of my care." He finally finds the will to let go, and takes a teetering step back and wipes his eyes on his palms. "I'll also provide additional compensation for your efforts these past few weeks."</p><p>"I don't want your money," John says, barely over a whisper. He looks stricken, devastated, in just as much pain as Harold. "I want—It's never...it's never been about the money. You know this."</p><p>"I do," Harold says. "I just...I think this will be easier for the both of us. We've become too attached to one another. When one of us dies...it should be easier this way, I think, for whichever one of us is still standing."</p><p>"And was that easier?" John's soft voice is tinged with bitterness. "With your friend? You hadn't seen him in a while. Was it easier that way?"</p><p>Harold abruptly feels exposed, sick, his chest tight, his stomach aching. He averts his eyes again, staring down at the cement floor. "I can't do this again. Losing you..." There's so much he wants to say. <em>You've no idea what losing you will do to me. These past few weeks, you've become so much more to me than you already were, and you were already a vital part of my life. I'm in love with you, and I think losing you may kill me.</em> "I need distance, space, so you won't be so important to me anymore." He forces himself to meet John's eyes again, and repeats, "I need you to go."</p><p>John looks away for a moment, then nods. "Okay," he says. "If you're still sure that's what you want in the morning, I'll go."</p><p>"It will be," Harold insists.</p><p>"And if you change your mind, I'll come right back." He reaches out and touches Harold's arm. "I don't want you to do this."</p><p>"It'll be better this way, for both of us," Harold says. "You'll see, someday."</p><p>John doesn't seem convinced, but nods and says, "Okay," and gives him the saddest smile he's ever seen on John's face. "I'll take you home, then I'll give you your space. And if you need me, you'll know where to find me."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once Arthur has been taken away and Harold is back in his wheelchair, Shaw corners him and John and insists on examining Harold and replacing his IV, "while you're here." He half expects her to interrogate him, but she stays mostly quiet throughout the proceedings, asking only medical questions. While checking his lungs, she asks, "Still doing your breathing exercises?" With her cool stethoscope pressed to his belly, she asks, "No weird pains anywhere in your gut? Nothing severe? Handling the new liquids okay?"</p><p>Physically, he's fine. His wounds are healing. Emotionally...well, that's not her area of expertise.</p><p>She puts in the new line and hooks him up to another bag of chemicals with nothing but cool professionalism. "I'll let Reese drug you up some more once you guys get back to your place," she says, and a sharp pang squeezes Harold's heart. "Unless your gut's bugging you now?"</p><p>"No," Harold replies, and runs his free hand absently over his abdomen. It does hurt, yes, but it's nothing he can't handle. "Actually, I think it might be time to start decreasing my dosage. Perhaps I'd be a little more steady on my feet that way—and perhaps I might be able to return to work."</p><p>"Fine with me," Shaw replies. "It'll, uh. It'll be good to have you back."</p><p>Stunned, Harold's eyes widen. It's the first time she's said anything of that sort to him that he can recall. "Really?"</p><p>"Yeah, Leon's driving me nuts. Ready to get rid of him—Hudson or East River?"</p><p>Harold scowls at her over his glasses, and Shaw gives him a sly, terrifying grin. "Ms. Shaw, again, I must ask you to refrain from disposing of Mr. Tao. Though he <em>is</em> annoying, we don't do that sort of thing."</p><p>She huffs and rolls her eyes. "<em>Fine</em>," she says. "But you better come back soon. Might not be able to help myself if you don't."</p><p>He nearly reconsiders when they're heading down the hall and a loud, cheery, drawn-out,  "Finch! Finchy!" comes booming out of another bedroom as they pass. Reluctantly, Harold moves back, ignoring Shaw's annoyed huff, and Leon beams at him from a hospital bed, his smile wide and dopey. "Finchy finchy Finch, Harold, my buddy! Thought I recognized that spiky floof! It's good to see you!"</p><p>Harold and Shaw exchange exasperated looks, and Harold heaves a weary sigh. "It would be impolite of me to ignore him, wouldn't it?" he says.</p><p>"He's on drugs." Shaw gives him a baffled look. "He doesn't care."</p><p>"Yes, but he <em>was</em> injured while doing my job, Ms. Shaw."</p><p>"You wouldn't have gotten yourself shot by one of Peter Collier's goons."</p><p>Abruptly, inexplicably irritated, Harold snaps, "No, I just got myself stabbed by Kyle Everett." To Leon, he says, "It's good to see you, too, Mr. Tao," feigning mild cheer, but he has run out of patience for interacting with people. He needs to go home.</p><p>Luckily, it seems to be enough for Leon. "Man, I hope you don't wanna talk to me, buddy, because I am <em>beat!</em> I am <em>zonked!</em> I am on so many drugs that I can't even see straight, so I think I need to go night-night again."</p><p>Harold exchanges an unimpressed look with Shaw. </p><p>"Yes, that sounds like a good idea," Harold calls out to him, reaching for the wheels on his wheelchair again. It would benefit everyone.</p><p>"I'm glad you're alive, though!" Leon adds, brightly. "It woulda made the big guy, our buddy, our guy John sad if we lost you. Woulda made everybody sad—even I would be sad if you weren't around. But him? I think you almost, like, broke him."</p><p>Harold freezes. Leon bumbles on. "I went there, that night? Someone, like, called everyone, someone with this, with this really weird voice like some kind of ransom call or something—" Harold's stomach drops. <em>The Machine.</em> "—called all of us and told us to get to that apartment because you were dying, so I went? It was really spooky, but I went anyway, and I found out someone had stabbed you, and you were hurt bad, and it was terrible, but, man, <em>John.</em>"</p><p>Reluctantly, Harold asks, "What did Mr. Reese do?" guilt building up inside him.</p><p>"He <em>cried</em>," Leon replies, and Harold's heart shatters. Oh, he's made a terrible mistake, hasn't he? "I only saw, like, a glimpse of him—he, like, stayed by you the whole rest of the time I was there. But he was, like, all covered in blood, y'know, and he was just <em>silent</em>, and he had these, like, tears running down his face. And that hot chick, I think her name's Zoe? <em>She</em> couldn't even help him. Man, I thought you'd <em>died</em>.</p><p>"But you didn't! And I'm really glad, and I bet he's really, really glad. So, y'know, don't die, please. He'd really miss you."</p><p>Biting his lip, Harold nods, and tries to find his words, to remember how to speak. "Thank you, Mr. Tao, for letting me know."</p><p>"I cried, too, you know, a little," Leon says, and Harold feels oddly touched. "I didn't want you to die, man. You're a good guy, Finchy. So don't—don't die, okay?"</p><p>"Tha—" Harold's throat clenches, and he clears it. "Thank you, Mr. Tao. I appreciate your kind words."</p><p>Leon doesn't respond this time, sound asleep. Thank god.</p><p>"We should go," Shaw says, "before he wakes up again."</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, his voice and stomach hollow. "Yes, we should."</p><p>What a terrible person he's been tonight, a terrible friend, he thinks, letting Shaw take over rolling him on, struck numb by Leon's words. He mustn't lose sight of why he's doing this, of why he is enforcing a new distance between him and John, but it feels horrible. He feels ungrateful, hateful, like an abominable wretch of a human being.</p><p>It's not an unfamiliar feeling. It's the same tearing sensation he felt the moment he limped away and let Grace think he was dead. It's the same nausea he felt as he told Will he'd been in a car accident, and when he manipulated things so Will would return to Africa instead of digging deeper into his father's past. It's like stripping away The Machine's memories, telling Nathan all those people were irrelevant, so many things.</p><p>And while, perhaps, telling John it is time to end their partnership rather than telling him how deeply in love with him he is is on the smaller end of the scale of all of his misdeeds, it does not speak highly of his character. Breaking the heart of a good, kind man—even for his own good, in the end—is not something a good, kind man would do.</p><p>His mind drifts back to Mildred's words. <em>"You've caught you a good one, kiddo. Don't let him get away."</em> and <em>"That man adores you!"</em> To Leon. To Zoe's insinuations. To everyone else who has spoken of John's devotion, of how deeply John was affected by his injuries, his pain, his near death.</p><p>Then he thinks of catching John in his arms after John was shot, of the bomb vest, of all the times he's lost his connection to John's earpiece. All the nights of lost sleep from worrying about John, even when John was supposedly in no danger. All those nights spent thinking of the day he loses John, of how he'll feel.</p><p>All those times spent thinking of how John's lips would feel on his, or how it would feel to wake up next to John every day for the rest of their lives together, however long that might be. Of sharing a home, adopting more pets, loving each other. Sex. It's not the most important of his fantasies and wishes, but he would very much like to have sex with this man that he loves.</p><p>He just doesn't want to hurt, or to hurt him.</p><p><em>But you did,</em> he thinks. <em>Harold, you did hurt him.</em> A different kind of hurt, but a hurt nonetheless.</p><p>And now he'll spend one more night with John in his house. Will John retaliate? No, of course not. That's not the sort of man John is. Retaliation is reserved for far more severe hurts than this, for people like Peter Arndt, for Kyle Everett if Fusco hadn't taken him out first. It would take something far worse, something unthinkable, to make John destroy him.</p><p>But it will be awkward, and it will be painful. John will be there, in his home, one last time. Then he will leave. The man who has taken such great care of him, of his battered body and his traumatized heart, who bathed him and fed him and read to him, who helped him walk, who nursed him throughout his fever, who helped him heal, will go, and it will be because Harold told him to go.</p><p>He is a fool. A stubborn old fool. That stubborn streak of his is what kept him going as he bled out, but it will also be his downfall here, he fears. If he sticks to his course, if he pushes John away, it will hurt the both of them, but it will help. It <em>will</em>.</p><p>Won't it?</p><p>They enter the living room, and, out of sync with his mind, Harold's heart leaps at the sight of the back of John's head sticking up over the back of the couch. John turns, and for the first time in days, he doesn't smile at Harold. Harold misses his smile immensely.</p><p>"You ready to go?" John asks, soft and emotionless, and Harold's ruined heart cracks further.</p><p>Shaw looks between them, clearly confused, and asks, "Did you two have a fight or something?" Before either of them can respond, she holds up a hand and says, "You know what? I don't care. Just take him home, Reese, so I can babysit the idiot in there without so much judginess stinking up the place."</p><p>It occurs to Harold that he could ask Shaw and John to trade places, have her take care of him for the rest of his recovery instead. But, even now, he trusts John more. Shaw would poke around his house, peek into every corner, plant bugs and violate every last bit of his privacy <em>and</em> demolish the contents of his refrigerator and replace them with ordnance while she did it.</p><p>John will not. Even after all he's said tonight, after all he intends to do tomorrow, he can still trust John to respect him and his home. He won't even have to sell it after this. All he'll have to do is tell John never to set foot near it again, and unless he is in danger, John will not.</p><p>"Yes," Harold says, softly. "I'm ready to go, Mr. Reese."</p><p>Pressing his lips firmly together, John nods, and gets gracefully to his feet. "I'll go get your coat and your things."</p>
<hr/><p>The ride home, and the trip back to his room after, are spent mostly in silence. He carries Arthur's legacy in his lap, Samaritan's drives handed to him by Shaw on his way out the door. <em>"My child"</em> echoes in his ears whenever he notices the drives again. <em>"Take care of my child."</em> Soon, he will add to his list of broken promises by destroying the drives. Soon. But not yet.</p><p>Samaritan finds a temporary home on the rolling table beside his bed, next to his and John's discarded dinners. It feels both appropriate and not for the drives to lie there, abandoned, like waste. A grand achievement that cannot be allowed to live. A more sentimental man than Harold might lock it away somewhere, and trust that his own security systems will keep it safe.</p><p>He has more than proven that he is not a sentimental man tonight. Or perhaps he's proven that he is—he's not entirely certain. But Samaritan cannot be allowed to live. He lacks the time to nurture another fledgling ASI these days, and his own is enough of a terrifying handful.</p><p>When he is well, he does need to find a moment to initiate contact with his Machine, to find out what it is up to with Root and why it has been contacting his associates. But that's a matter for another time. Samaritan is his next priority.</p><p>Once his IV bag is attached to the pole, he has John leave, and gets to work preparing for bed on his own. It takes far longer than it should to change his clothes, relieve himself, and brush his teeth, but he manages it, and winds up nearly collapsing on the bed afterward from exhaustion.</p><p>On the vast, empty bed, with only Bear and a furry stuffed goldfinch for company.</p><p>The night around him—it barely qualifies as nighttime anymore at this hour—is as quiet as New York City can be. Harold's brain, however, is not. He expects to fall asleep instantly, but his mind keeps spinning, running around in the same circles that have been chasing him all night.</p><p>He will never see Arthur again. So many years spent telling himself he had time, he could go visit Arthur at some point, hunt him down and show up on his doorstep and reminisce, and Arthur would be delighted by the feat of hacking prowess that led Harold to his door. Then Nathan died, and his thoughts changed to, <em>I'm running out of time. I should go see him. I'm running out of time.</em></p><p>Now he has run out of time. He has one dear friend left—who he intends to push out of his life—and several less dear friends he may deliberately drive away one day, too. No Arthur. He'll never see Arthur or Nathan ever again.</p><p>It was a consolation that Arthur was still standing. Now...he doesn't even have Arthur now. Soon, he won't have John.</p><p>The more he thinks about it, the more he becomes convinced that his plan is ridiculous. Distancing himself from Grace for her protection didn't make him stop caring for her. If something happened to her, even now that he's gone and found another to love, he would be devastated. His feelings for her haven't gone away with separation—why would that make his feelings for John vanish?</p><p>Why would he not feel grief over losing John just because John is out of his life? When his father died, he hadn't seen him in years, and he still felt grief. When he learned his mother was gone, after her being absent from his life for decades, he still felt grief. He hadn't seen Arthur in years, and losing him hurts. No amount of distance will prevent the pain.</p><p>Like Lou Mitchell said to him, "For a genius, I am an idiot."</p><p>Bear makes an inquisitive noise, and Harold adds, "A <em>colossal</em> idiot."</p><p>If only his mind came with an off switch. Running used to be good for that, but it's off limits now. His attempts at meditation have only ever led to an onslaught of chatter in his brain, to more ideas, more thoughts, more chaos—too much to think about, always. Tea is tricky these days.</p><p>He's exhausted. That <em>should</em> be enough. Exhausted, on potent painkillers—anyone else would've fallen asleep the moment their head hit the pillow. But his brain is a riot of noise, his belly <em>hurts</em>, his bones and heart ache, and he's cold.</p><p>No. No, he's warm. Bear is warm. The bird isn't warm, but its fur and stuffing encourage and gather warmth. It's the bed that's cold and empty and big—far too big for one man. Why didn't he downgrade to a double or a twin when it became clear he wouldn't be spending the rest of his life with someone? The foolish hope that he was wrong?</p><p>It didn't seem so large, so cold, so insurmountable when John was with him. That's the thing about beds, he's found—the right company can make or break them. And even when John was sleeping in the chair he still hasn't moved back to its spot, the bed wasn't such a vast, cold place. Because Harold hadn't ruined one of the few good things he had left.</p><p>He wonders if...no, surely not. But the glimmer of an idea has him struggling to his feet as soon as it occurs to him. He grunts and groans and hurts, clutches at the IV stand and the chair as he struggles to catch his breath and restore his equilibrium. It's a terrible idea. John will surely say no.</p><p>Harold lets his feet find his slippers anyway, urges his aching old body to move, to stagger out of the bedroom and into the hall with a death grip on the IV pole and a much gentler hold on his sore belly. It's probably a foolish move to do this. He's probably the last person John wants to see at the moment. But it's hardly the most foolish decision he's made tonight, so he keeps going, putting one foot in front of the other.</p><p>It doesn't take long to reach the guest room. The door is open, and, once his eyes adjust, Harold can see the vague shape of a person lying on the bed. Of course John chose the room closest to his. If Harold called out in the night, he'd want to hear it, even after everything. He'd want Bear to be able to fetch him quickly if Harold suffered a setback, or fell, or—anything.</p><p>Maybe he still wants to be close, too—but, no, surely not. But what if he <em>does</em>?</p><p>Harold knows better than to enter John's room unannounced while John's sleeping, and it would be rude besides. He lifts his hand from his stomach to knock on the open door, then hesitates without making contact, his breath caught in his throat, his insides squirming. John needs rest, he thinks. John probably doesn't want to see him. He should turn around and cultivate that distance he so desperately wanted all those hours ago.</p><p>He doesn't want that distance now. He's not sure he ever did, really. He wants John—always has, probably always will.</p><p>His bed is too big. His room is too empty, even with the dog. So he tries again, and manages, just barely, to knock, his knuckles lightly tapping the door. Not loud enough. He can hardly hear it over the nervous pounding of his own heart. He should try again, maybe, or perhaps it would be better if he just walked away, or...</p><p>"Harold?"</p><p>A light comes on inside, and John is sitting up at the foot of the bed before Harold can even think to flee. He stares at John, speechless, for far too long, fist hovering near the door, until it dawns on him that John does not look like he's been freshly awakened.</p><p>John couldn't sleep, either, it seems.</p><p>There are so many explanations he could give for his presence, but none of them come out. So many reasons he could be standing at John's door when neither of them have slept a wink, when he's supposed to be separating himself from John, but the words don't move from his brain. He just stares, into blue-gray eyes filled with far more compassion than he deserves, moving only when the ache in his belly demands a comforting hand against it, trapped by indecision and regret and fear.</p><p>John breaks the silence. "Come in," he says, and, not waiting for Harold to respond, lies down on the bed again, leaving a space Harold should fit into quite neatly. "Come here."</p><p>Harold takes a halting step forward, and John stretches out an arm across the bed, offering. Like he's being tugged by a string, Harold makes his way toward him, not speaking, and carefully sits down next to him, then lies down, grateful that his IV is on his left side.</p><p>"C'mere," John repeats, and pulls Harold into his arms, so gentle and tender Harold nearly feels like weeping. "It's okay."</p><p>The tension wrapped around his chest like a band lets go. Harold exhales, and moves into John's touch, letting his forehead rest against John's. John is warm, and smells of Harold's own honey soap and citrus shampoo, of cinnamon toothpaste and clean sweat and John, only John, dear and instantly comforting. The smell of him is like a balm for Harold's soul, the feeling of John's body, the contrast of firm strength and slightly softened flesh more warming than the pile of blankets he tugs over them both.</p><p>"I don't feel well," Harold murmurs, wrapping an arm around John, keeping the other close, his hand cupping his belly. "I couldn't sleep. I'm cold, and my stomach hurts, and I just..." He feels childish putting like that, but his body and his heart are aching, and if there is anyone in the world who won't judge him for it, it's John. "I don't feel well."</p><p>"Yeah," John whispers, like he understands, and, oh, he probably does, doesn't he? "I'm sorry."</p><p>"My friend is gone," Harold says. "My friend is gone, and I don't want you to go, John, I don't..."</p><p>"I wasn't planning to," John says.</p><p>"I told you to go."</p><p>With an insolent smirk that's somehow gentle and endearing, John says, "Did you really think I was gonna listen?"</p><p>Startled, Harold stares at him a moment, then chuckles. "Your impertinence knows no bounds, does it?"</p><p>"I just don't take bad orders," John retorts. "Not anymore. Not since I met you."</p><p>"Even if they come from me?" Harold asks.</p><p>"Especially if they come from you." John runs his hand up and down the length of Harold's back, slow and soothing. "And if I know they'll hurt you."</p><p>"You think my judgment is compromised."</p><p>"Right now? Yes." He tightens his hold on Harold, almost imperceptibly, but Harold doesn't try to pull away. "You've been having a rough time lately. Been expecting you to try something like this, to pull back. The new team idea was kind of unexpected—thought you'd just try to pay me to take off, but you're always managing to surprise me."</p><p>"You've never been in this just for the money," Harold says. "But the numbers..."</p><p>"But it's not just the numbers," John says. "Not for a really long time. I could do it. I could have my own team, take orders from somebody else, take orders from The Machine itself even, maybe, just to save people, if I had to." He looks deep into Harold's eyes, so intense it sends a shiver crackling through Harold's body. "But I don't want to have to. I want to save people with you."</p><p>And John almost lost that—not for the first time, either. "I keep forgetting to take into consideration that you almost lost a friend. How callous of me, how <em>cruel</em> of me. I'm sorry."</p><p>"It's not about me," John says. "Not really. The world's a better place with you in it. My world's a better place with you in it. And I haven't thought of you as just a friend in...a while."</p><p>Harold's heart picks up its pace, and Harold asks, "And what am I to you?"</p><p>"Something far more important," John replies. "Someone far more important. Someone I can't afford to lose." His hand moves toward Harold's face, and Harold realizes John is trembling. The only times he's seen John tremble like this have been from physiological causes, and when he was wearing that bomb vest. For someone with so much control over every emotion and action to do such a thing...</p><p>John's fingers brush against his cheek, wiping the words from Harold's mind. His rough fingertips move so gently over Harold's skin, so soft and reverent Harold can't help closing his eyes and <em>feeling</em>. "You're too important to me," John continues. "And I don't think right now's a good time for this, but I just...I need you to know. And I need you to know I'm not letting you run me off without a fight."</p><p>Harold nods, and John traces under his eyes, one then the other, where fatigue's dark circles have most likely pitched their baggy tents again. "Get some sleep, Harold," he says, following the craggy path of wrinkles at the corner of an eye. "We'll talk about this in the morning."</p><p>Eyes fluttering open, Harold says, "It's already morning."</p><p>John smiles. "Afternoon, then. But not yet." He glances toward Harold's lips, then back to Harold's eyes, staring deep into them, and Harold knows, with absolute certainty, that John wants to kiss him. The night has been fraught with emotion, devastating and horrible. Perhaps he should allow it, or encourage it.</p><p>Then John starts to withdraw. Without thinking, Harold grabs him by the shirt, fisting his hand tight in the soft, white cotton, and John lets out a tiny gasp, eyes widening, lips parting. His gaze goes to Harold's lips again, just for a moment, and he looks at Harold with a question in his eyes. If Harold were more mobile, if he didn't have a spine full of titanium and an aching belly full of stitches, he would close the distance between them himself. But he can't.</p><p>He answers John's question with a nod.</p><p>John's lips meet his, just for a moment, with painful softness and disappointing brevity. He is far too quick for Harold to respond, to even think of kissing back, yet so tender it hurts Harold's heart. "Let me get you settled in," John says, words brushing over Harold's skin, "and we'll go from there."</p><p>He half-expects John to flee, but John is slow to withdraw and stand. "Must you go?" Harold asks.</p><p>With a smile, John says, "Your back and your neck'll thank me if I do. I'll be right back." He bends down and kisses Harold again, just as briefly, his joints popping a little along the way. Harold's heart constricts—neither of them are young men anymore, are they? "I promise."</p><p>But John makes him feel, if not young, younger, leaving him with a long-forgotten giddiness effervescing amidst the grief and pain—a small and tentative ray of hope suffusing him. The touch of his lips lingers on Harold's skin, warm and soft. As soon as he's out of sight, Harold's hand moves to his mouth, almost involuntarily, over the feel of John's kisses. He can hardly tell how he feels—dazed and afraid and elated, startled, thrilled to his core, like the world has been tilted so far off its axis that it's somehow wound up right way up again.</p><p>They weren't enormous kisses, not the kind that would teach him what John's lips taste like or some profound truth, but he feels shattered, electrified inside. How he's supposed to sleep again after this, or exist, he doesn't know. And where do they go from here?</p><p>Later. He decides to bask in the feeling, just for a moment, to indulge himself. To commit the brief, shy presses of John's lips on his to memory, to savor them, just in case. In case John leaves as requested. In case they never do this again. In case he loses the best part of his life to his own foolishness.</p><p>And he hopes and he hopes and he hopes, until John returns and after. What a dangerous, painful thing to do—hope. But he does it nonetheless, keeping on hoping long after John falls asleep, and on and on until he follows.</p><p>What else is there for him to do after this but hope?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Afternoon comes with an empty bed and a stomach full of bubbling nerves. Harold drags himself out of the guest room at a truly embarrassing hour, his first priority to take care of his bladder's uncomfortable demands, his second to find John.</p><p>Despite the urgency of the latter, it is a significant relief to finally be able to handle the former on his own, he must admit. Privacy—blissful, blissful privacy and independence. Maybe soon he'll even get to enjoy it without the ball-and-chain of an IV or the incessant weight of fatigue. A cane will likely be needed until the overall weakness and the tearing feeling in his belly finally go away, but it will be a vast improvement over needles and tubes and fluids.</p><p>Slowly, very slowly, he is healing.</p><p>As the haze of sleep clears away, the pall of grief starts to creep into its place. Arthur. He cannot forget about Arthur. Once he's found John, he should call Madani, find out what sort of arrangements the doctor has made, what he can do to assist. Will Arthur be buried under his own name, Harold wonders, or, thanks to the government, a false one? Last time Harold checked, Arthur had other living friends, and family—siblings and cousins and nieces and nephews. He had colleagues who would mourn him, peers from school, friends and relations who no doubt knew of his terminal cancer.</p><p>Death rarely only affects the deceased.</p><p>If there is a funeral, he won't be able to go himself. Shaw's colleague Hersh knows his face and would have no trouble neutralizing him in the middle of a crowd of people. But, as he did with Nathan, he can honor Arthur's memory, can mourn his dear friend in some other way.</p><p>(One day, when he is a braver man, he'll have to ask Root to tell him more about Arthur's last days.)</p><p>Perhaps he should start his memorial process with Samaritan.</p><p>Though John has cleared away the abandoned dishes, Samaritan is right where Harold left it, a pair of tape drives lying stacked atop each other on the table. Tucked between them is a piece of paper, something he didn't notice in the aftermath of Arthur's passing. Curious, Harold tugs it free, and sits down on the chair beside the bed.</p><p><em>"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places,"</em> is written on the paper in Arthur's handwriting. "<em>A Farewell to Arms,</em>" Harold says aloud, running his thumb fondly over the text. He introduced Arthur to Hemingway at MIT—the proper introduction, anyway, not what passed for one from Arthur's school classes.</p><p>There is a date written down as well, February 24, 2005—the day Arthur brought Samaritan to life. The day before it was supposedly destroyed.</p><p>An unexpected sob builds up in Harold's throat. He wishes he could ask Arthur about those days, about Arthur's experiences, wishes he had <em>known.</em> He wants to know every detail, wants to know how and why his Machine was finished first, wants to know more about what Arthur built and how. In the short time that it lived, was Arthur's Samaritan as full of life and cleverness and personality as The Machine? Arthur called it his child—was it as near-human as her? How did he build it? How did he save it?</p><p>If he didn't know firsthand the sort of power a machine like Samaritan could hold, Harold would indulge in his curiosity and find a way to run it. But all those iterations of The Machine that failed, that tried to lie or escape or kill, taught him better. He cannot indulge his curiosity this time, nor can he tuck these drives away for safekeeping. He must destroy them.</p><p>"Not just yet," he says aloud, setting them and the paper back down on the table. His eyes and throat are burning, and his heart is aching and tight. He won't dawdle, won't put it off forever, but that doesn't mean he must do it now. It'll be a while before their whereabouts are traced to him, if they ever are. Most likely, all eyes will be on the black market, the dark web, everyone expecting it to go to the highest bidder. Then they'll widen their search.</p><p>It'll be long gone by then, the pieces scattered so widely they'll never all be found, just in case someone someday finds the means to put them back together again and make them work. He cannot take any chances.</p><p>But he also can't do it just yet. Perhaps if he'd been there with them, cornered by Vigilance and government agents, locked in with an agent of Decima pretending to be a bank employee, he could have done it then, or encouraged Arthur to destroy the drives himself. Now...now it's just too hard. He's not strong enough for it today.</p><p>Tomorrow, maybe. Or another day.</p><p>He decides to hunt down John instead. Wiping the dampness from his eyes, he collects himself with a few deep breaths and the straightening of his clothes. Does he have the energy to put on something else, he wonders. Maybe he should try—it would be a good distraction, at least.</p><p>After much longer than it should take, he is dressed in a clean, fresh shirt with long sleeves and his trusty tan cardigan—both baggier on him than they were mere months ago—and a terrible but comfortable pair of equally loose stretch pants. Once he's well enough, he'll have to visit his tailor again, or drag out his own sewing machine and get to work himself.</p><p>"Don't get ahead of yourself, Harold," he says, running a hand over his still-swollen belly. Just because he feels slightly better doesn't mean he's healed. It is nice to be able to dress himself again, though, even if it does require a great deal of effort and energy. When one is recovering from injury or illness, small achievements should be celebrated, even when they don't feel like nearly enough.</p><p>He really should've learned that lesson last time he was seriously injured, he thinks. He did not.</p><p>Making his way downstairs on his unsteady, tired legs does seem daunting afterward, even with the elevator, so he unhooks the IV from the stand and uses the wheelchair instead. One day he really does need to get a better chair, he thinks, instead of the bare minimum he chose for penitence. If he's going to keep getting injured—or for the inevitable day when he needs it permanently—he should acquire something better. But that's another issue for another time.</p><p>He heads down to the ground floor, expecting John to be there. Part of him fears John has left, as he ordered, but then Bear would be literally dogging his every move, and Bear is nowhere to be seen. Either John took Bear with him and left—unlikely; John wouldn't leave him without protection—or they're in Bear's favorite room, the kitchen.</p><p>Sure enough, he hears music coming from the direction of the kitchen as soon as the elevator opens. It's turned down much lower than usual, but it's the same classic rock John usually listens to, familiar background noise. As he gets closer, he spots John puttering about, preparing their latest meal, and the nerves bubble up inside him again.</p><p>It's not unlike an awkward morning after, albeit one sans drinking and debauchery. The same roiling in the stomach, the same hesitant approach, the same sense of foolishness. But it carries more weight these days. This isn't the dalliance of a young man. John is far too important.</p><p>And John kissed him. Only two soft, small kisses, both chaste as could be, but <em>significant</em>. Up until recently, John hugging him would be unheard of. This? This means everything has changed.</p><p>John knows now. John knows that Harold has feelings for him and did not walk away, nor did he rebuff Harold's advances. It would've been so easy for John to have said no, for him to have untangled Harold's hand from his shirt, for him to have let go and walked away. Instead, John kissed him, twice—two small but unmistakable kisses that cannot be dismissed as feverish hallucinations.</p><p>There are very few reasons for someone to do such a thing.</p><p>John glances up and catches sight of him, and the light he thought he kicked from John's eyes last night shines again. <em>"The way he lights up, he could light up the whole city,"</em> Harold thinks, even though that light is muted, tempered by other emotions. But John is, unquestionably, pleased to see him, setting down his wooden spoon and turning down the burner on the stove immediately, then starting toward him.</p><p>"Hey there," John says, gently, and settles his hands on Harold's shoulders. "How're you doing?"</p><p>Torn between honesty and a polite, <em>"Good,"</em> Harold manages something more like a small whine instead, and John's gaze turns sad.</p><p>"Yeah, that's what I figured," John says. "Why don't you come in here?" He steps off to the side, leaving a hand high on Harold's back, giving him plenty of space to move but not breaking contact as Harold wheels into the kitchen. "I'm making more soup—I, uh, kind of left the last pot out all night last night." John grimaces.</p><p>"Oh, dear."</p><p>"Yeah. I'd probably still eat it myself—" Harold wrinkles his nose. "—but, uh, I don't want to risk hurting your stomach."</p><p>"And what about yours?" Harold asks. "If you go down with food poisoning, I won't be able to haul your butt up off the floor. You're too long."</p><p>John gives him a teasing grin, and says, "I thought you liked my long legs, Harold."</p><p>How does John—oh. Harold's face heats up. He told John he had the legs for a tiny nurse's dress while drugged to the gills, didn't he? "That doesn't make me spontaneously capable of lifting a giant like you, even when I'm healthy," he retorts, and John chuckles. "So I need you to stay well, and for you to be the one who does the physical heavy lifting. My days of lifting large men skipped over me entirely."</p><p>"You calling me fat, Harold?" John asks, with nothing but amusement.</p><p>"Yes." Harold pokes John in the soft part of his belly, very lightly, and John laughs again, while Harold runs his hand down John's abdomen. It feels quite brave to say, "You have a lovely body," as his hands learn the shape of it, and the words go over well, making John smile.</p><p>Though, of course, he doesn't believe John's, "Yours is pretty great, too." He scoffs, and John says, "No, I'm serious. I liked the way you looked before..." He gestures toward Harold's middle, his injury-slimmed body, "all this. The softness, the belly? They, uh, looked good on you. You're finally getting some color back in your face, but...I miss the rest of you."</p><p>"Oh," Harold says, stunned. He stares at John, searching for any signs of insincerity, and finds none, just a pinkish tinge to his cheeks and a nervous, earnest look on his face. John really does like his body, then. Or he liked it as it was before. "I must admit, I find this predilection rather baffling. And I don't think it'll ever qualify as even halfway attractive ever again, even to you."</p><p>John smiles slightly. "It will."</p><p>Harold's eyebrows shoot up. "Really. You believe that this—" Without thinking, he lifts his shirt, baring his bandaged abdomen. "—will one day look acceptable?"</p><p>"Yeah," John replies, and Harold lets his shirt fall. "I'm covered in scars, too—you've seen them. I hate that you got hurt, but the scars? Not as much of a turn-off as you think."</p><p>Once again, Harold is at a loss for words, and repeats, "Oh," rather uselessly. "Well, then. In that case, I'm certain the belly you love will grow back once I start eating again, especially if you keep feeding me so well."</p><p>"Eggs Benedict and croquillants every day, once I figure those out," John says, contemplative. "Takeout for lunch, ribeyes or Italian for dinner, ice cream and gelato every night. Nice cupcakes." His lips quirk slightly. "No broth or Jell-o."</p><p>The fact that little of it sounds enticing reminds him he's still unwell—though he is still sad about missing out on those cupcakes. "Let's start small at first, please," he says. "And I do like nice, simple food on occasion."</p><p>"Maybe I'll make you a nice sandwich every now and then." John eyes him, considering. "Turkey and swiss? Chicken? Beef?"</p><p>"So long as it's not like some of the monstrosities I've seen Ms. Shaw assaulting her insides with, I'm flexible," Harold replies, and notices he's holding his aching stomach. He doesn't let go of it. "But I lack the appetite to give food much consideration these days."</p><p>John crouches down and looks Harold in the eyes, expression softening. "You'll get it back," he says, and cups Harold's cheek in his warm palm. Harold leans into the touch with a sigh, and John strokes his cheek with the rough pad of his thumb. "You're almost there. Pretty soon you won't need me hanging around all the time anymore."</p><p>Those words douse his pleasant mood as efficiently as a bucket of ice water. "About that—about what I said last night, some of the things." Harold bites his lip. "I...I didn't mean them. I'm sorry."</p><p>"You lost a friend." John lets his hand slide down to Harold's shoulder. "And, like I said, you're not running me off without a fight. A big one."</p><p>Harold exhales, relieved. "I justified it as self-defense last night." John opens his mouth to speak, but Harold holds up a hand, and John goes and sits down at a chair under the kitchen island. "I feel I owe you an explanation. I thought that—in the moment—that if I enforced a bit of a separation between the two of us, it would protect the both of us from pain in the event of one of our deaths. A rather foolish idea, I admit, in hindsight, but I'm afraid I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time."</p><p>"Your friend had just died," John says. "I was expecting pretty much anything to come out of your mouth. And it hurt—it did." Harold's heart twists. "But you were grieving. You were hurting. We all do stupid shit when we're hurting like that. Believe me, I know."</p><p>Harold nods. "You've been so good to me, so kind to me, since the day—no, since before I was stabbed. For me to treat you like that...I truly am deeply, <em>deeply</em> sorry. You're someone that I...you're very important to me, John. <em>Very</em> important to me. And I—"</p><p>A cold, wet nose nudges his hand, the click of claws on the floor muffled by John's music, and Harold lets out a startled, "Oh!" Automatically, he strokes Bear's muzzle, saying, "Hello there," and winds up with a lapful of Bear's head for his trouble. "Impeccable timing, as always."</p><p>"He just thought I was getting too much attention."</p><p>Voice dry, Harold says, "Well we can't have <em>that</em>," and scratches behind Bear's ears. Switching his tone, Harold continues, "But, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, you are very dear to me, and I couldn't help but think of how it would feel if I lost you. Losing Arthur...it hurts. I never would've thought it would hurt this much. And I kept thinking about losing you, about how much pain I would be in, and I thought maybe if you left, maybe if I drove you away, it would help. That it would keep me from feeling so much pain, or keep you from feeling as much pain if I die first.</p><p>"Then I realized that, no matter the distance between us, I will still be deeply, deeply hurt by losing you, and you will be deeply affected by losing me." He meets John's gaze. "You often speak of people being too important to lose, being someone the world can't afford to lose—Detective Carter, me. Well, you are on my list of people the world cannot afford to lose, that <em>I</em> cannot afford to lose. I need you. I need you in my world, and I..."</p><p>He forces himself to maintain eye contact as he says the next words, even though they terrify him more than he could ever express. "I suspect you've already figured out that I love you, that I am—" His voice falters slightly. "—in love with you."</p><p>"Yes," John says. "You, uh—you probably don't remember it, you were in pretty bad shape, but, uh..." He glances away, his eyes full of pain. "That day. Right before you passed out. You told me."</p><p>Harold's heart cracks. "No," he says. "No, I don't remember that at all."</p><p>"You were begging me to help you. You were terrified." John blinks hard, shaking his head, and the light catches on the dampness in his eyes. "You were dying, and you didn't...you didn't want to die without me knowing how important I was to you. I told you I already knew, and you said I didn't. I haven't..." He looks down, at his folded hands in his lap. "I haven't stopped dreaming about it since...since then."</p><p>"Oh. Oh, John, I..." Every word seems inadequate, so Harold reaches out, and lays a hand over John's, ignoring Bear's disappointed huff and departure. Bear can wait. John cannot.</p><p>"I didn't want to bring it up—figured you weren't ready to tell me, that it was, uh, something I wasn't supposed to know just yet."</p><p>Harold nods, and licks his dry lips. "It was." He'd say it was a secret he intended to carry with him to his grave, but he supposes this disproves that. "I didn't want you to know."</p><p>"Yeah." John swallows, his throat bobbing. "Would've treated you the same way, even if I didn't. Even if I didn't love you back like that—you're special. You're my friend. I just wanted you to be okay again. But I did kind of hope I could show you that it was okay, that you could love me, if you wanted."</p><p>"You did," Harold says. "You've been very good to me. In all the time I've known you, you've never let me down, but after this? Oh, gosh, I am no good at this." He pauses to collect himself, to put these difficult feelings of his into words and find the courage to speak of them aloud. "I do not trust easily. I don't put my faith in others easily—you already know this."</p><p>"You're a really private person."</p><p>"Yes. One who is not inclined toward believing in others. But when I was wounded, I knew that, not only would you come to save me, you would succeed—and you did. And now...I feel like I could trust you with any of my secrets and not be disappointed."</p><p>"You could," John says, eyes meeting Harold's again. "Even before, you could. I'd give everything for you. And I'd die to protect your secrets."</p><p>Oh, no, Harold doesn't want that. He tugs one of John's hands free and laces their fingers together. "I'd rather you live for me, if you wouldn't mind," he says, bringing John's hand to his lips for a kiss, then letting it fall, still entwined with his own. "I have lost too many people. I don't want you to join them."</p><p>"I'll try," John says, squeezing Harold's hand. "But what about..." He swallows, and looks down at their joined hands. "What about the person who thinks she lost you? I keep thinking about her, what she'd think..."</p><p>Grace. The thought of her sends him reeling. Oh, <em>Grace</em>. Poor Grace. However... "That chapter of my life—I believe it's closed now," Harold says, and as soon as he voices the thought, something settles inside him, as though he has literally shut a book. It is a curious feeling, and a significant relief. "I love her dearly—I do—and most likely I always will, just as you will always love Jessica." John's eyes meet his again, wide and pained. "But there is no going back, only forward. The man Grace loved is dead. I doubt Harold Martin will ever rise from the grave. Much as I love her, my relationship with her is finished. She is part of my past now." A cherished and still-bleeding wound from his past, but in the past nonetheless.</p><p>"My relationship with you, however?" Harold pauses, trying to encapsulate all of his feelings in words. "It is in the present. I feel as though I have...been brought back to life by you. And perhaps moving on with you may make me a bad man, a true scoundrel undeserving of someone as magnificent as you, but I have never pretended to be a saint, and after what happened to me...life is so terribly short and so terribly painful. I'd like to be with you, if you'll have me." He smiles at John. "And you've said you will."</p><p>"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," John says, soft and rough. "You're stuck with
me." He leans in and kisses Harold on the corner of his lips, then pulls back, smiling. "Sorry."</p><p>"Stuck with the man I love," Harold says, voice dry, despite feeling as though he may explode from relief and joy. "How unfortunate for me. Whatever shall I do?"</p><p>Thinking on death, both literal and feigned, leads his mind inevitably back to Arthur, and to the drives upstairs. While he can hardly bear to destroy them, John has no attachment to Arthur and no curiosity about advanced programming. "After dinner—or breakfast, or whatever this meal would be considered, would you do something for me? Would you help me out with something?"</p><p>"Anything," John says.</p><p>"Good. Those drives of Arthur's?" John raises his eyebrows, and Harold wonders if he was expecting something else. "They cannot be allowed out into the world. I need you to take care of breaking them apart for me, please. But not right now."</p><p>John, thank goodness, does not ask if he's certain, does not question the imminent destruction of a friend's life's work. He says, "Okay," and, "after dinner, I'll take care of it."</p><p>Another of the many weights on Harold's shoulders feels like it is lifted. He exhales. So many burdens, but one of them is no longer his to bear. Maybe John can help him carry some of the others as well. Like his grief.</p><p>"I'd like to talk about him a bit, too, if you wouldn't mind. I don't know where to begin, really, but..."</p><p>"Wherever you start, I'm listening." John smiles softly. "Always."</p><p>"Always," Harold repeats, and breathes a small sigh of relief. Yes, John will listen to him. John will be there for him—of course he will. That is an intrinsic part of who John Reese is. And Harold loves him dearly for it.</p><p>"I'm guessing you'll need some tea," John says, and gets up from his seat, not letting go of Harold's hand. He bends down and kisses the top of Harold's head, and Harold smiles slightly. "What kind do you want?"</p><p>Tea. That used to be a question with only one answer. Is he ready to try to make that true again? Will a cup of sencha drag out memories he would rather not think of today? He's already taken several huge risks today, has already changed his life significantly. He has a boyfriend now, he thinks, a partner in the romantic sense of the word. And he is grieving. Should he—</p><p>"I take it that means 'not sencha,'" John says, gently, and kisses his head again. Harold leans back and looks up at him, helpless, and John kisses the tip of his nose. "You'll get there. I promise." He thinks for a moment. "Would real hot chocolate be okay instead? I promise it's better than that crap I gave you last night."</p><p>Oh, right, the hot cocoa. He forgot about that. "I think I left that on the balcony."</p><p>"You won't do that with this. I promise."</p><p>Very well, then. "I like hot chocolate."</p><p>"Then you'll really like mine."</p><p>While John mixes and stirs and whisks, Harold heads for the living room, but then the garden catches his eye. He decides to head outside and grabs a throw blanket from the back of the couch. Surely with the afternoon sun shining so brightly it won't be too terrible, and if John lights a fire, they will be warm.</p><p>On his way toward the door, he spies something out of place. Next to the carved bird his father made him stands a small, imperfect wooden dog, its pointed ears and curled tail perked up, posed to look like it's sniffing the bird's head. Harold smiles, and runs a finger along the dog's back, over the grooves of carefully-etched fur. It looks like it belongs there, and Harold sees no reason not to let it be.</p><p>So he moves on, heading outside, letting his own real dog head out first. The air is cooler than the sunlight suggested from indoors, but it's tolerable. Too cold for him to move to a chair, though. He sits at the table, angled toward the dormant fireplace, leaving plenty of room for Bear to drop his head onto his lap, and takes a deep breath, inhaling the crisp autumn air, breathing in the chill. It feels good—he does not, but he will get there, or close, eventually.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>Bear is in well-petted bliss by the time John comes out, carrying a pair of blue mugs. Steam wafts up from them both, seeping around the edges of dollops of whipped cream. "Those look impressively decadent," Harold says, and John smiles, pleased.</p><p>"Didn't know if you were a marshmallow guy or a whipped cream guy, but whipped cream seemed like it'd be easier on your gut."</p><p>"I'm quite fond of both, actually." Harold takes the hot mug into his cold hands with a grateful smile and a soft, "Thank you," and apologetically adds, "Please don't be offended if I don't finish, by the way. My stomach..."</p><p>"I get it," John says. "How you feeling today—inside, your gut?" He gestures toward his own midsection. "How's it doing?"</p><p>"Sore," Harold replies, bringing his mug up close to his lips. "But I think I'll be okay." He starts to take a sip, but it seems too hot to drink, and he hesitates, asking, "So, where did Bear's wooden sibling come from?"</p><p>"From Joan," John replies—the woman who looked after John when they were both homeless. "I took Bear by her place right after she moved into that apartment you got her—I know that was you, by the way."</p><p>Harold doesn't bother to deny it. "She's been an exceptional tenant, and I hear she's been thriving at Mr. Saunders' charity."</p><p>"Oh, yeah, she's doing really great." John beams with pride. "Really good work. Her grandpa taught her woodworking when she was a kid, and she made me the little dog in there. Is it okay right there, by the way, or should I put it somewhere else? I just...thought it fit there."</p><p>"Mm, it does," Harold replies. "It's perfect."</p><p>The hot chocolate is also perfect, bittersweet richness and a hint of cinnamon balanced by the cream. As it goes down and curls up in his stomach, he lets out a sigh, letting the drink warm him and comfort him, listening to the sounds of John starting the fire and the click of Bear's claws on the stone beneath them. "As is this."</p><p>John flashes him a grin. "Told you you'd like it."</p><p>"The cinnamon is a bit of a surprise." Harold takes another drink. "But not an unpleasant one. Do you like it with chili in it as well? I must admit, I haven't been brave enough to try it that way yet."</p><p>"It's good," John says, standing up and heading back toward him. "Different. I think you'll like it. Once you get better."</p><p>"So many things to do then."</p><p>"Yeah." John bends down and kisses Harold's cheek, his lips warm against Harold's cool skin.</p><p>"How will we ever find the time?"</p><p>"Guess we'll have to get creative."</p><p>"Indeed."</p><p>Soon, the smoky smell of the outdoor fireplace joins the deep chocolate scent, and, for a moment, Harold is taken back to his younger days, to autumn nights with Nathan and Arthur, and all their grand, grand plans. He sighs again, melancholy this time.</p><p>"We were going to change the world," he says, as John pulls out his chair, metal scraping the stone beneath. Harold opens his eyes, and he looks into John's questioning gaze. "The three of us—Nathan, Arthur, and me."</p><p>Picking up his drink, John says, "And you all did."</p><p>Harold tilts his head, considering that. "Yes. Yes, I suppose we did."</p><p>"So." John takes a sip of his drink. "How'd you guys meet?"</p><p>Harold tells him, starting with the day he opened up his dorm room door and found himself staring down his worst college nightmare—a tall and handsome boy with blond hair, a cluster of far too many newfound friends, and a loud, obnoxious laugh. He talks of how much Nathan annoyed him, how much Nathan <em>delighted</em> in annoying him, how infuriating it was when it turned out Nathan was actually brilliant.</p><p>How fascinated Nathan was by him.</p><p>"I can relate to that," John says, eyes alight. "I did think you were kind of annoying at first, but once I sobered up...I realized you were the most interesting person I'd ever met."</p><p>Struck hard by memory, Harold stares at him, and, once he gets his bearings back, says, "Nathan said the same thing—<em>exactly</em> the same thing. That I was the most interesting person he'd ever met, I mean."</p><p>"Lot of people probably think that," John says. "You're special."</p><p>"Thank you." Cheeks heating and chest aching, Harold moves on. Arthur had been a bastion of sanity, he tells John. They shared all the same classes that first year, somehow, and were so much alike, yet different. Arthur was straightforward where Harold was mysterious. Arthur had no interest in many genres of literature while Harold gladly devoured every single book he could get his hands on, even the terrible ones.</p><p>Nathan was enamored by the both of them, but especially by Harold. After only half a semester, he was determined to make Harold his best friend for life, and succeeded. The three of them together? Chaos.</p><p>"We were all too smart for our own good," Harold says, "and too dumb to behave ourselves."</p><p>He tells John about their misadventures at parties, their elaborate pranks, everything. About the time he had appendicitis during finals, the day they learned the hard way that Arthur was allergic to bee stings, the weeks Nathan spent on crutches when a prank went south. About alternating between spending holidays with Nathan's and Arthur's families once they learned that Harold had no one. About Rudiger Smoot and other dares, about confessing one drunken night that his real name wasn't Harold Wren, and neither of his friends being terribly surprised.</p><p>He comes close to telling John his real name. Someday. Someday, he <em>will</em> tell him.</p><p>For the first time, he admits to someone that he was in love with Nathan. John takes it with his usual gentleness, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and kissing his cheek, figuring out instantly that, "You've never told anyone, have you?"</p><p>With a sigh, Harold says, "Not even him."</p><p>He talks for what feels like hours, for what probably <em>is</em> hours, until the sun is dim and the hot chocolate is cold and the whipped cream in his cup has deflated, pausing only for John to periodically check on the soup, then to serve them both bowls. His throat is dry by the time he's finished telling John more than he's ever told anyone about his past, scratchy and tired. His soul is light, his mind a curious contradiction of awakened and <em>exhausted</em>. He needs to rest. He needs painkillers. He needs to stretch his body and empty his bladder.</p><p>He needs a cup of tea.</p><p>"Let's continue this conversation inside," he says, gripping the cold edge of the wrought iron table and pulling himself to his feet with a groan, dismissing John's proffered assistance with rising, but not with walking. His spine and hip like the decrease in his dose of medication as much as his belly does—not at all—but he will get used to those old pains again. He hopes he doesn't have to adapt to the new ones. "The unpleasant aspects of being human are making their existence known, I'm afraid, and I need to stretch my legs just a bit."</p><p>"Need me to get you anything?" John guides him toward the door with a hand on his back, steadying him in body and mind as he walks, a trustworthy presence at his side, like always. Harold adores him beyond words.</p><p>"Yes, actually," Harold replies. "Would you mind turning the kettle on? The electric—and set it for green tea, please."</p><p>John stops, and so does Harold, and they turn to look at each other. "Green tea?" John asks, hesitant and hopeful. "Sencha?"</p><p>With a small nod, Harold replies, "Yes. I think it's time to give it another try," then reaches up and draws John into a kiss.</p><p>It's time to give a lot of frightening things another try, he thinks, as his and John's lips meet. Tea and romance go well together, and they seem like good places to start.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>With Leon incapacitated, the question of when Harold must return to work is raised again. Shaw does an admirable job handling several numbers on her own, with the detectives' assistance, even assisting Root with a relevant one on an airplane—a terrifying prospect, even excluding the necessity of working with Root.</p><p>Then, the number for an event planner, Kelli Lin, comes along.</p><p>"I hate to say it," Shaw says, once she's briefed him and John on the case, and what she knows about Lin's exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum Of History, "but I think we're gonna need a rich guy for this one, Harold."</p><p>Already turning his attention to acquiring tickets to Ms. Lin's event—obtaining three instead of two without thinking, a flare of excitement over the exhibit getting the better of him—Harold replies, "I quite agree, Ms. Shaw. And, since it's tonight, I think a visit to my tailor is in order."</p><p>He can practically hear her rolling her eyes as she says, "Whatever."</p><p>Beside him, John chuckles, and says, "Hope you got something prettier than guns in your arsenal, Shaw."</p><p>That sets her off, of course, with her making a comment about moving some of John's weaponry to the history section that John has a quick retort for. As they begin bickering in earnest, Harold thinks, <em>Oh, when did I become a parent?</em> even as a small smile creeps onto his face. Despite the occasional headaches from their squabbling, he has missed being privy to it terribly. Still, regrettably, he must be the professional one. He shifts the conversation back to business, advising Shaw to dress nicely before going over further details about their cover identities.</p><p>Once the call is wrapped up, with a plan to meet at the safehouse later—something that leaves Harold tamping down more than a little fear, but he cannot avoid the place forever—Harold starts to make his own arrangements.</p><p>"You want me to go with you?" John asks, as soon as a slot with a sympathetic tailor has been procured.</p><p>"No need," Harold replies, with a surprising lack of hesitation. He has been improving in leaps and bounds recently—joining John on walks with Bear on foot, taking trips to the coffee shop nearby for tea, even going to a restaurant for soup. Drinking sencha with only minimal panic. He spent an entire day fending for himself while John went to help Adam Saunders and Joan prepare the homeless camp for winter, again when John's friend Han needed some assistance with winterizing his apartment. He even joined John and Han for dinner at John's loft later, and was very thoroughly defeated by Han at xiangqi after the meal.</p><p>Han was quite happy that John had found love with "his Harold," saying that John spoke of him often, that John needed someone and deserved "great happiness." Harold agrees. He's not entirely certain he's the right person for the job, but he intends to work on that for the rest of his life.</p><p>His IV is gone. His external stitches are gone, carefully removed by John just the other day. John's presence in his house is now voluntary instead of necessary. His belly still hurts, he is still on more pain medication than he took before he was wounded, and he needs a cane for added stability, but he feels better. It's time.</p><p>"I think I may be ready for this. Besides, I'm usually quite comfortable around all of my tailors. They want me to keep coming back and spending ungodly amounts of money with them."</p><p>John doesn't argue. "Okay," he says, and kisses Harold on the cheek. "But if you run into any trouble..."</p><p>"I know, my darling." It feels good to use terms like "my darling" with John, warming him from deep inside. Perhaps it would be too soon for those sorts of endearments in any other relationship, but judging by the way John lights up each time, it has the same effect on him.</p><p><em>"Make our own normal,"</em> he told John, at the beginning of John's stay. While he cannot speak for John, he certainly likes this version of normal.</p><p>"I'll call you if I have any trouble."</p><p>"Good." John wraps him up tenderly in his arms, hands splayed broad and warm on Harold's back, and kisses him again on the lips. "And it doesn't even have to be real trouble." He lets go and steps back, a smile on his face, and takes Harold's hands in his. They're still dry, unmoisturized—putting lotion within easy reach isn't working, then. He'll have to try a different tactic. "You could just need some help choosing between plaid and glen check," John continues, "and I'll come and tell you nobody can tell the difference, and you'll tell me—"</p><p>"It's a black tie optional affair, John," Harold says, with a laugh. "I'll be wearing a tuxedo. No plaid, no glen check."</p><p>"Exactly." John's smile softens, and he leans in and kisses Harold's mouth again. "Be safe out there, Finch, so we can have one hell of a first date."</p><p>Chuckling, Harold untangles himself reluctantly from John's hold, and tells him, coy and teasing, "I don't put out on the first date, Mr. Reese." He won't be putting out for a while, he suspects. As soon as his wounds have healed, however...</p><p>"Of course you don't. You're a classy guy." John sneaks a pat to Harold's rear end as they part, and Harold gives him a sly, filthy look.</p><p>"You won't be saying <em>that</em> once I can really get my hands on you," Harold says, dropping his voice low and dirty.</p><p>"I bet." John's grin turns <em>delighted</em>. "I'm looking forward to it."</p><p>Harold's phone buzzes—the car service, judging by the time, letting him know his ride has arrived. With one last kiss, John tells Harold, "Now, have fun playing dress-up," and lets Harold go. "And, seriously, call me if you need anything."</p><p>The closer Harold gets to the door—the farther away he gets from John and their sanctuary—the more the anxiety bubbles inside him. But Arturo is a kind man, and his skill is second only to Gianni in Italy. Many hours have been spent in the man's nonjudgmental company before, the proof hanging in Harold's many closets. He will be fine.</p><p>And he is. The car rides, the visit with Arturo, all of it go smoothly. He comes out with a lovely tuxedo that comfortably accommodates the lingering soreness and swelling, and will have several more new suits to wear soon, as will John. The trip is exhausting, and he dozes in the car on the way home, with plans for a much-needed nap after.</p><p>He has no nightmares. He does not see Everett's face behind his eyelids.</p><p>At home, he heads straight to his room to put his new suit away, then goes to greet John. Those plans for a nap are quickly discarded when he is embraced by a truly divine sweet smell as soon as he steps out of the elevator downstairs. John has been cooking again, filling the house with a warm, buttery aroma tinged with fragrant vanilla. Harold breathes it in deep, savoring it despite the strain on his new scars, fatigue becoming overwhelmed by excitement.</p><p>Cake. It smells like cake.</p><p>Perhaps he finally has permission to eat again? He hopes so, as does his growling stomach. Though John has been getting more and more creative lately, Harold is growing tired of soups and Cream of Wheat, and fears the remote possibility that he might soon lose his taste for ice cream.</p><p>No more ice cream—perish the thought.</p><p>"Hey there," John says, getting up from his seat and kissing him hello as he steps into the kitchen. "How'd it go?"</p><p>"Quite well, actually." He spots a small white box peeking out from beneath the centerpiece of faux autumn flowers and leaves on the table, barely hidden, and chooses to ignore it. If it's for him—and the half-hearted attempt at hiding it suggests it is—he will know soon enough.</p><p>John leads him to the table with a hand on the small of his back, and Harold tells him about his trip as he settles in. To his surprise, John listens to every word. It's flattering. He knows John has no interest in suits unless he's wearing them, in tailoring or new clothes, but John's attention stays on him, rapt, as he talks of fabric and stitches and fashion for far too long.</p><p>"Sorry," Harold says, after a while. "This must be terribly boring to you."</p><p>"Nah—only a little bit," John admits, with a sheepish smile, "but it's nice, seeing you excited again—seeing you happy again."</p><p>Happy. Harold stares at him for a moment, dumbfounded, until it truly sinks in. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I am happy—knock on wood." He taps his knuckles on the table, and the reddish mark of old wounds on his fingers catches his eye. They grow fainter every day, fading like the pains in his belly and the fear in his heart. "I'm very happy."</p><p>"And I hope I'm gonna make you a little happier." John reaches for the box, a lovely little thing imperfectly wrapped in sleek white paper and tied with a golden bow. "Got you a present."</p><p>Harold takes it and eyes it curiously, then unties the ribbon and opens the wrapping with care, not wanting to ruin what's inside. Next comes the lid, and when he lifts it off, he sucks in a small, startled breath.</p><p>Inside is a cupcake, topped with a swirled peak of white frosting speckled with tiny black flecks of vanilla bean, a near mirror of the batch his wounds kept from him. It isn't expertly decorated, but it's still beautiful, and looks utterly delicious. "Oh," he says, startled, and the scents of sweet vanilla and buttery cake start to reach his nose from up close. "Oh, this is—"</p><p>"A vanilla cupcake," John replies, "but not from some fancy bakery, sorry," and Harold's chest starts to ache. Not baked by a paid professional, but by John. "Just got the all-clear on solids for you from Shaw today, so I made sure to fix you something good. You seemed a little unhappy about the cupcakes, so I thought..."</p><p>"I was." Harold tries to swallow the aching lump in his throat, and fails miserably. "Thank you, John."</p><p>"I tried to make it look nice," John continues, with a small laugh, "but I'm not too good at it. Sorry."</p><p>Harold sets the cake down and takes John's hand. "John, it's perfect." Even if it tastes terrible, he'll still think so. "Thank you—truly."</p><p>It doesn't taste terrible. The cake is slightly drier than he'd like, the frosting a little sweeter, but it's still incredible. He eats every bite and half of another before the rich buttercream has him holding his uncomfortable stomach, his body no longer used to such treats. That, he suspects, will change. "You're going to spoil me terribly, aren't you?"</p><p>Smiling, John says, "Yes," and reaches out and brushes away a patch of frosting from the corner of Harold's lips with his thumb. He holds it close to Harold's mouth, and Harold kisses the sweetness away, making John's smile widen. "Gotta get back at you for spoiling me."</p><p>"Speaking of spoiling you, I ordered you a few new suits," Harold says, as John starts stroking his face, touching him like he is astonished by his very existence. "While I enjoy seeing you in casual attire, I am..." John's thumb brushes over his mouth, and Harold kisses him again. "I'm very much looking forward to seeing you in a suit again."</p><p>John chuckles quietly. "Should've known that was a thing for you. All that stuff about me blending in in black and white..."</p><p>"Well, it <em>is</em> a very popular color combination," Harold retorts, leaning into John's palm. "But it also looks exceptionally good on you. It was an unexpected benefit, I assure you...but I must admit that I truly appreciated it."</p><p>"You can't just say you think I look really sexy," John says, leaning in close, lips nearly brushing Harold's, "can you?"</p><p>"No," Harold replies, with a smile, and closes the gap between them.</p><p>They don't get to kiss for long before Harold's body breaks them apart with a yawn. Both of them laugh, and John asks, "Is kissing me that boring, Harold?"</p><p>"Yes," Harold lies. Kissing John is <em>thrilling</em>, such an exciting new joy, but he is tired. "No, I just...overestimated the amount of energy I have. I planned to take a nap as soon as I returned home, but...cupcakes. And now I fear I don't have time."</p><p>John's teasing grin turns to sympathy. "No one's gonna be pissed off if you can't make it tonight. No one's gonna judge you. You still need your rest."</p><p>"I know. But I think...I think this is something that I need to do, for me," Harold says. "I <em>need</em> to get back out there, to start helping people again."</p><p>"You need your purpose back."</p><p>"Yes." More brightly, Harold adds, "And I do want to see the exhibit. A partnership of museums from around the world loaning some of their most significant cultural artifacts?"</p><p>"That's right up your alley," John says, fondly.</p><p>"Indeed." John knows him so well, he thinks—knows what he enjoys, knows the many reasons why he needs to do this. "I'm ready to start getting my life back."</p><p>"Yeah," John says. "Then let's get to it."</p><p>After a long, indulgent shower spent kissing and touching each other more than cleaning—and lamenting Harold's weakened body's limitations while enjoying John's beautifully responsive body's lack of them—they get dressed. Harold still needs assistance, but John doesn't seem to mind helping, dropping kisses upon Harold's skin as he handles the parts Harold still cannot do. Even the tops of Harold's feet aren't spared.</p><p>And when he sees Harold fully clothed, every last little detail in place, John lets out a comical wolf whistle. Harold preens at first, until he notices the state of John's tie. He heaves a sigh.</p><p>"What?" John says, making another ill-fated attempt at adjusting it.</p><p>They bicker as Harold takes over, Harold insisting on the simplicity of the task, John falsely asserting that his prowess with weapons means he can handle a bowtie. Lessons. John will need lessons. But that's alright. Harold looks forward to teaching him.</p><p>So many things to look forward to, instead of dread. He fights the urge to smile. How exciting!</p><p>Once he's finished, Harold steps back and admires his handiwork—and John. Oh, yes, black and white suit him well. He looks so good in a beautiful tux, tall and lean and powerful, classy and handsome. "Well, I suppose you'll do," Harold says, dryly, and John grins.</p><p>"Gotta raise my game up if I gotta be seen with you."</p><p>And indeed John has. But even perfection can be improved. "One of these days, I should take you to Rome with me," Harold says, smoothing John's lapels down, "bring you with me to see Gianni, my atelier. You look quite fetching in this, don't get me wrong, but Gianni—he's the best. I want to see what he can do with you."</p><p>"You really do have a dress-up thing, don't you?" John teases.</p><p>"When I have a work of art like you to work with? I—" Harold turns to retrieve his cane, sending a sharp wave of pain across his abdomen. He stops in place, his hand flying to his belly, an involuntary, "Mm," escaping his mouth.</p><p>John is at his side in an instant, asking, "You okay?" one of his hands going to Harold's back, the other covering the one on his middle.</p><p>"I think so," Harold replies, his voice strained, and carefully straightens up, his sore muscles protesting. "I merely moved wrong, I think."</p><p>"It happens," John says, gently, and kisses Harold's cheek. "You'll get better." He hands Harold the cane. "And if you need me, I'll be right there with you. Always."</p><p>Harold looks at him, into the eyes of the man who came running to his side when he was stabbed, who stayed and stayed and stayed, even when Harold tried to get him to leave, and falls even more in love. John is exceptional. And even though there may come a day when John cannot be there when needed, it won't be by choice—just as Harold will never choose not to go to him.</p><p>Their love won't be easy. Their love won't be perfect. They will fight, and it will be ugly, for they are two stubborn old bastards when they are at their worst, but it won't be the end of them. They will get hurt again, may even hurt each other, but they will help each other through. They're quite good for each other, Harold thinks, and it will take death to break them apart.</p><p>"Always," he repeats. "Now, Mr. Reese, let's get back to work."</p><p>It's raining outside, cold and heavy and relentless. John holds an umbrella over him as they head for the car, keeping him as dry as possible. Next door, Mildred is just returning home from somewhere, and she calls out, "You boys look real handsome tonight!" with a beaming grin. "Good to see you back on your feet, Harold!"</p><p>"Date night," John tells her, taking Harold's cane as he slowly, painfully gets into the car.</p><p>Once Harold has caught his breath a little, he waves back at Mildred, and says, "Thank you, Mrs. Cooper."</p><p>They say their goodbyes, and, soon, he and John are enveloped in the warmth of the dry car. John gets the engine going, and they are on the move. They sit in silence for a while, until the strain of walking eases and Harold can think again. His mind goes, as it often does these days, to his new relationship. He hasn't seen the rest of his team in person since he and John got together. And while he doesn't think they'll encounter any objections...</p><p>"I'd like to keep this between us for the time being," he says, laying a hand on John's thigh. "Keep things professional—or what passes for professional—between us while we work the numbers."</p><p>"Okay." John lays a hand over Harold's and wraps his fingers around Harold's, and Harold exhales, relieved. He half-expected John to disagree, to accuse him of treating their relationship like a dirty secret, but John understands his need for secrecy, doesn't he? "Just for us, for now. Just ours."</p><p>"Everyone will probably figure it out eventually, I suspect," Harold continues, "and you may want to let Ms. Morgan know you're unavailable now, considering your, ah, relationship with her."</p><p>"She won't mind," John says. "It's just casual, me and her. Fun. She always says that she and I, we're, uh, no good for relationships, romance, that kind of thing. But maybe if it's you..."</p><p>"I think we understand each other better than most people would," Harold says. "We don't have to hide anything from each other. We can be ourselves together."</p><p>"Exactly," John says. "But I'll keep it quiet. I don't mind. Quiet. Professional. Ours."</p><p>"Thank you," Harold says, and, after a moment, decides to add, "my love."</p><p>John's smile in the rearview mirror says that was the right decision.</p><p>But as they get closer to the safehouse, Harold's nerves start to get the better of him. He insists on stopping at a coffee shop nearby for drinks—another of his purchases, stocked with many of his favorites—just to delay the inevitable. Without thinking, he requests his old standby, sencha, and the first few sips go down with surprising ease.</p><p>Then, he gets into the apartment building, and the tea turns to lead in his stomach.</p><p>Each step feels heavier than the last. The elevator ride is endless, weighed down by the dread building in his gut. John stays close, a comforting hand splayed on the small of Harold's back, and Harold breathes more easily than he would if he were alone, he suspects.</p><p>He's getting better, he reminds himself. His body is healing. His mind is healing. Kyle Everett cannot, will not hurt him again. He will be fine. He has John at his side, and, even without training, he suspects his dense wooden cane would make quite the impressive weapon, so long as he doesn't freeze up again.</p><p>But he does.</p><p>He freezes at the door, gripping his cup and his cane tightly, hit by a wave of memory. Knife. Pain. Bleeding out on the floor, a puddle of tea swirling ever closer to the blood as all the strength slowly oozed from his body, replaced by cold.</p><p>Every nerve in his body tells him to leave.</p><p>Then a gentle kiss is pressed into his hair, the cup of tea is carefully taken from his crushing grasp, and the smell of coffee and John nearby overpower the memories. "You're okay," John says, soft and soothing, and drops another kiss on his head. "It's okay. He won't hurt you again. He can't."</p><p>Harold nods. "No," he says. "No, he can't, can he?"</p><p>"He can't," John repeats. "And I'm not gonna let anyone else get to you, either. You're gonna be just fine."</p><p>Harold believes him. Yes, he <em>will</em> be okay. He will be just fine. With a deep, bracing breath, Harold opens the safehouse door, and he takes a step inside.</p>
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  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27827365">Art for Building Safer Houses</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina">st_aurafina</a>
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